


True You

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, Blind Castiel, British Men of Letters Being Assholes, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:29:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: After Castiel goes missing, Sam and Dean spend months trying to find him. When they do, things will never be the same. Dean knew those British Men of Letters were bad news.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 12.14, but before 12.15

                It started with Dean staring miserably at his cell phone, telling Sam, “Cas missed his check in.”

                It ended two months later, with Sam bursting into Dean’s bedroom at two am, disrupting Dean from his drunken stupor, screaming, “I’ve got a lead, I’ve got a lead, I think I know where Cas is!”

                Dean woke up like lightning struck him. It took a moment for his sleep-addled brain to process the words. When they did, he bolted out of bed, searching wildly for a pair of jeans. “What happened?” Dean said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. His mouth was dry, and he had an awful headache, but Sam’s excitement, with his words echoing in Dean’s head, sent a surge of adrenaline through Dean’s veins.

                Sam set his laptop on Dean’s bed and began to type furiously. “I found the payphone that called him,” Sam explained.

                Dean nodded. It was the first thing they discovered when Cas disappeared. Before he missed his check in with Dean, he received an incoming call from an unknown number. That was unusual, of course. The only people who called Cas were Sam and Dean, rarely Mary. He and Claire texted each other often, but it wasn’t her number that stared back at Dean on Cas’s call log, glaring ominously. Sam had discovered pretty quickly that it had to be a payphone, but the number was somehow encrypted, meaning they couldn’t search its location.

                The Winchesters hit a wall after that. They packed up and drove over night until they reached the last town Cas had been in by sunrise. They looked high and low, searched every crook and cranny, but all they came up with was meeting with a homeless man who was convinced that Castiel was an alien.

                “Why do you think that, sir?” Sam asked with as much patience as he could muster. Dean rolled his eyes behind Sam, fumbling with his phone in his pocket, hoping all of this was just a giant mistake and Cas would call him any second now. He’d take any reason. Cas’s phone was dead. He lost it. He forgot. Dean would take that, Cas was out having a good time, partying it up, and he just forgot to check in.

                Dean knew it was a foolish thought. He kept fiddling with his phone.

                “I tried to talk to him,” the man screamed. “He wanted to ask me about something, but I was, uh, you see, I was out of sorts, a bit—“

                “You were drunk,” Dean said, smacking his lips. Great. He gave Sam a look that said, _why are we wasting time interviewing a drunk_?

                “He touched my head, like this,” the man said. He stood on his tip toes and brushed Sam’s forehead with his fingertip, just like Cas did. “And then I wasn’t drunk no more, and all my sores were gone, see!” He pulled his sleeve up, revealing a mile of unblemished skin. “Nothing but an alien coulda done that.”

                “Did he say where he was going?” Sam asked.

                “Well, I assume he went back to the Mothership,” the man said.

                Dean sighed, at the same time Sam said, “Thank you for your time.” Sam gave the guy a twenty dollar bill and they walked away with nothing more than except the knowledge that when Cas was stuck on the Kelly Kline case with no way to go, he spent his time healing old drunks.

                After that, it was a series of sleepless nights trying to retrace Cas’s last steps, but they couldn’t find anything.

                At the three week mark, Dean got pretty wasted in frustration and muttered to Sam, “Do you think he’s dead?”

                Cas had almost died at the Lake House. Dean had watched uselessly as Cas bleed from his wound, and nearly choked on that awful, heinous, black goo, and there wasn’t a damn thing Dean could do to save his friend, to ease Cas’s pain. Crowley had come through for them on that end, and Dean realized he never even thanked the bastard.  
                It wasn’t like he sent Cas out on his own right away after that horrible night. Dean had stood vigil at Cas’s side for days, too afraid that if left Cas alone, took his eyes off Cas for even a few seconds, the angel would disappear. Cas had told Dean off after the third day, insisting that he was fine, and he didn’t need Dean to smother him.

                It was another three days after that that Dean reluctantly let Cas go back on the hunt for Kelly Kline. And even though Cas had made good on his promise to check in every night ( _Don’t text_ , Dean said, _you call me, okay? You call so I know it’s you_ ) hearing Cas’s voice wasn’t the same as seeing him. Cas’s insistence each time that he was fine didn’t ease Dean enough as much as seeing Cas would have. Cas always downplayed his injuries and ailments if he didn’t conceal them outright, and Dean really couldn’t trust Cas to be honest about his health.

                Sam had looked at Dean with his sad, large eyes, but he shook his head, adamant. “Of course not,” Sam said. “Whatever happened…Cas is tough,. We’ll find him.”

                But then weeks slide into a month, and one month turned to two, and each day that passed without stumbling across anything, Dean’s hope faded further and further away.

                Mom had promised to keep an eye out, but she hadn’t found anything. Not that she called much, anyway. Dean was lucky if he heard from her once a week. She was having too much fun with her new besties.

                Dean stared at Sam hopefully, swallowing the lump in his throat. Two months of not knowing, of having no clue where to even begin—Cas has been gone longer than Dean was in prison, and Dean had started to give up hope of ever seeing his best friend again.

                And now Sam came barging in, claiming he found a lead.

                “How?” Dean asked, despite himself.

                “I realized, we’ve been looking at this wrong way. We keep trying to find the number that called Cas, but they used some kind of encryption thing. Well, we know it’s a payphone, so I, uh, did some reverse engineering.”

                Sam tilted his laptop in Dean’s direction as Dean pulled his jeans on. Sam’s laptop was a blue screen, with a map of the United States, and a plethora of numbers scrolling up. Several different spots on the map were blinking in red, circular dots.

                “There’s only a handful of payphones still in operation. Some of them are privately owned, but most are owned by AT&T, so I hacked into their service, backdated to the day Cas disappeared, and looked for phones that called Cas. And I found one.”

                Sam typed on his computer again and the map enlarged, one large, blinking dot staring Dean in the face.

                “Sam,” Dean said, “you’re a genius.”

                Sam huffed. “Yeah, I know.”

\--

                The number that called Cas is from some Podunk town in Mississippi, right by the edge of the river. Sam and Dean leave immediately and they make it there in just under ten hours. The payphone that called Cas is in front of a Gas N Sip.

                Decked out in their FBI threads, Dean and Sam interrogated the manager.

                “Have you seen any suspicious activity recently?” Sam asked. “Have you seen him?” Sam slide the woman their most recent picture of Cas, one Dean had taken when he re-did Cas’s fake badge, because he couldn’t let the poor moron go around calling himself “Agent Beyonce” forever.

                “Nope,” the woman said immediately.

                “Are you sure?” Sam pestered. “Please, look as long as you need. We’re investigating a federal missing persons case. This man is our partner. The last call he received before he disappeared came from that payphone over there.”

                “Agent,” the woman said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know anything, okay? You said this guy disappeared two months ago? You should’ve come talking to me two months ago. Maybe I would’ve known something then.” She leaned over the counter. “This is a small town,” she said. “Strangers don’t blend in here, they stick out like a sore thumb. And a stranger like that,” she pointed at the photo of Cas, “would’ve especially stuck out.”

                “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean snapped. Sam stomped on Dean’s foot, muttering a tempered, “Agent,” under his breath. Dean cleared his throat.

                The woman at least had the audacity to look ashamed. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. It’s just…your buddy’s a fed too, right? If he came around here, I would’ve noticed him. or heard about him. Feds come rolling in, it’s all the gossip this town has got for months. We had people from New Scotland Yard not too long ago, had my employees terrified out of their wits that there was some kind of international terrorist threat looming around the corner.”

                Dean and Sam looked at each other.

                “Did these Scotland Yard guys say where they were staying?”

\--

                In hindsight, it seemed so obvious. How the hell had they not thought of this before? God, Dean was such an idiot.

                “Friggin' British Men of Letters,” Dean growled as he got back into the Impala. He fumbled with his seatbelt. “They took Cas!”

                Fear clogged Dean’s throat. He’d see what kind of weapons the Brits had. What sort of angelic weapons they had…Dean didn’t doubt that they had more up their sleeves than Enochian engraved brass knuckles.

                “They have to have a headquarters nearby,” Sam said. “Hang on.” Sam pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number. Dean snuck a glance, and gnawed on his lip at the sight of ‘Mick’ pulling up onto his phone. Why the hell did Sam have that limey bastard’s number programed into his phone?

                “Mick,” Sam said. “Sam Winchester. Yeah, long time, no talk…Yes, it _was_ on purpose. Listen, Dean and I, we’re working a vamp case in Mississippi, and we could use your help. You don’t happen to have a place around the area, do you?...Really? Great! Awesome. We’ll be there.” Sam hung up the phone, face turning to stone. He pulled up the map on his phone and typed in an address. “There. HQ is just about two miles east.”

                Dean put the car in gear and drove like a madman, following his brother’s directions.

\--

                The map lead them to an office building, disguised as some sort of insurance company. Dean parallel parked and looked suspiciously at the building. It was at least ten stories high, with dozens of windows decorating the front, blinds drawn.

                “Dean,” Sam said, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Let’s discuss this, first. We have to be rational.”

                Dean checked his gun, ensured it was loaded. “What’s rational about this?”         

                “Our priority is finding Cas and getting him out of there safely. Let’s not barge in guns blazing before we’re positive that’s what we need to do.”

                Dean heard what Sam was saying, but frankly, he couldn’t care less. These bastards had Cas. They’d done god knows what to him. Dean would kill every single one of the assholes who had any sort of involvement in this operation.

                “Dean,” Sam insisted.

                Dean rolled his eyes. “I hear you, Sam, I hear you. But if someone’s standing in my way, I ain’t waiting for them to move. Now, c’mon. Cas has been with these bastards long enough already.”

                “I agree. But he might be hurt, and we don’t want to escalate anything.”

                If Cas was hurt, Dean was going to repay Cas’s suffering tenfold.

                They got out of the car and entered the office building. It was a nice setup, Dean had to admit. It looked like a real office building, complete with a furnished lobby. Dean walked up to the woman at the front desk.

                “Can I help you?” she asked, popping her gum.

                “We’re here to see Mick,” Sam said. “He’s expecting us.”

                “There’ll be no need for that,” a familiar voice said. Dean and Sam turned around, to see Mick walking up towards them. “No worries, Cindy, I’ll take it from here.” He was dressed in his usual dickish attire, complete with the awful tweed jacket.

                “Whatever,” Cindy said, staring down at her magazine.

                Mick patted Dean’s shoulder, and Dean fought the urge to slam his fist into this prick’s jaw, knock his two front teeth out.

                “Nice set up you got here,” Dean said, forcing a smile. He had his gun hidden by his coat jacket and his fingers ached to grab it.

                Mick smiled, proud of the compliment. “The best place to hide is in plain sight, yes? Can’t stand the weather, though. Mosquitoes are quite annoying too.”

                Sam huffed and Dean rolled his eyes.

               Mick must have sensed the animosity. He cleared his throat. “Got to be honest, Sam, I was beginning to think you were ignoring me. So, a vamp case, huh? I’m a bit surprised boys, I searched and searched, couldn’t find a lick of anything local that screamed vampire.”

                “Oh, well, that’s because there’s not a vampire,” Sam said.

                Mick’s face drained of all color. “Beg pardon?”

                Dean clicked the safety off his gun. He raised it. Cindy screamed. “Where’s Castiel?”

                “Cas-castiel? The angel? Haven’t got a clue, mates, really.” Mick put his hands in front of him. His eyebrow twitched.

                “Bullshit,” Dean snapped. “We know you called him. What did you do to him?”

                “Look,” Sam interrupted. “We don’t want to hurt anyone—“

                “Security!” Cindy screamed, pounding buttons on her phone. “Security!”

                “Just take us to Cas, and we’ll be on our way.”

                Mick swallowed. Dean pressed the barrel of his gun to Mick’s temple, squinting his eyes.

                “Um, okay, okay, I’ll take you to him, just don’t hurt anyone, promise?”

                “So you do have him,” Dean growled.

                “Dean!” Sam elbowed him in the gut. “Cas, now.”

                Mick nodded. “Uh, uh, just follow me, boys. Cindy, be a doll and cancel that security, please?”

                Cindy’s face was drained of all color.

                “It’s all alright love,” Mick said forcing a smile. “Just um.”

                “Shut up and take us to Cas,” Dean spat.

                Mick led them to a staircase, but instead of going up, they went down. Dean was confused. He didn’t think places in the deep south usually had basements.

                But down they went, the steps creaking under their weight, Mick moving slow as molasses.

                “Uh,” Mick said, coming to a halt in a hallway full of doors. “Just so you know, this wasn’t my plan at all. I told Ketch to leave the angel alone--”

                “Shut up,” Sam spat. Mick nodded. Dean shared a look with his brother. This guy was such a coward, how the hell did he call himself a man of letters?

                But Mick took them down the hallway, stopping at a halfway point. The entire thing made Dean uneasy. He was reminded of Magnus’s creature zoo. Some of the doors rattled, some animalistic screams piercing through the solid metal doors.

               Mick fumbled in his coat pocket for a keyring. The keys were all heavy iron, and there had to be at least twenty of them. His fingers trembled the entire time he stuck the key into the lock and turned the tumblers. The door opened with a creak.

                Dean pistol whipped Mick. The man went to his knees in a cry of pain, but Dean shoved past him and barreled into the room.

                When he realized what it was he was seeing, he wished he had shot the asshole right there.

                Cas was on the ground, arms bound behind his back, and secured to the floor with a giant, metal collar around his neck that had no slack. Cas’s head was forced to stay against the concrete floor. He also had a pair of giant earmuffs on, sigils engraved on the sides. There were also several different sigils painted on the walls and ceiling of the room.

               Cas was naked, body covered in a horrid painting of black, blue, and yellowing bruises, with some instances of angry red lines that tore down his back and arms. Cas hadn’t reacted at the sound of the door opening. He really couldn’t hear them.

             That didn’t stop Dean from rushing towards his best friend, screaming, “Cas!” as he fell to his knees, Sam hot on his heels.

             “Oh my god,” Sam moaned as he caught sight of Cas’s condition. Dean reached out to touch his friend, wary of all the injuries that marred him. The moment Dean brushed his fingertips against Cas’s shoulder, Cas lashed out, squirming as much as he could, despite his bindings.

             “Cas!” The first thing Dean did was rip those awful earmuffs off. He tossed them to the side. They hit the wall and broke on impact into two pieces. “Cas, it’s me, Dean. Sam’s here too.” Cas’s head titled to the side at the sound of Dean’s voice. His struggles lessened. Dean tentatively touched the collar that was fastened around Cas’s neck. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. It was old fashioned, padlocked shut.

             Sam stood up and walked back over to Mick, who was whining about the concussion Dean had given him. “Give me the key, _now_.” Mick handed it over, blabbering like a baby, while Dean worked on undoing the bindings around Cas’s wrists. Thankfully, those were just regular rope, but they had left horrible ligature marks into Cas’s skin. The sigils must have Cas depowered somehow.

           “It’s okay,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice gentle and low, despite other inclinations. Seeing his friend like this had him pissed off, and it wouldn’t be enough to just shoot every asshole responsible dead. Dean wanted them to suffer, like they made Cas suffer. Cas had several open wounds that still leaked blood and pus sluggishly as Dean manhandled him, though he was trying to be gentle as he could.

          Sam was back with the key. He crouched down and gently pulled back Cas’s hair with one hand so he could work with the lock. Sam had it unlocked within seconds. The collar came apart in two pieces, falling to the ground. Dean helped Cas into a sitting position.

          “It’s okay, Cas, we’re here, you’re safe.”

          With Cas in the sitting position, Dean could see that Cas was also gagged, and he tore the thick cloth out of his friend’s mouth, anger seizing through his body once more. Bound, deaf, dumb—what _hadn’t_ they taken away from Cas?

          “ _Dean_ ,” Cas gasped, like a drowning man breaking the surface for air. “Sam?” His voice was hoarier than usual, causing Dean to wince in sympathy. “You’re,” Cas coughed. Dean winched in sympathy at the sound. It sounded like pneumonia or bronchitis. Which shouldn’t be possible, not for an angel. Cas cleared his cough, “You’re here?”

         “Of course we’re here, you idiot,” Dean said, speaking over Sam’s similar sentiment.

          Dean pulled Cas against his chest then, Sam joining in a second after. Dean felt all the tension melt out of his body, and he fought the urge to cry. He had Cas back. After two months, he finally had his best friend back, but to know what sort of conditions Cas had been kept in during this entire time…Dean was horrified, and all words stuck to the roof of his mouth.

        Thankfully, Sam kept a soothing mantra, to assure Cas of their presence. “We’ve been looking for you,” Sam said, “you didn’t call and we didn’t know what happened, we never stopped looking Cas, not once—“

        Dean sighed, rubbed soothing circles into Cas’s bruised arms, not caring about the blood that was seeping off Cas’s skin onto him. Cas wasn’t healing. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest, eyes working over the sigils again. He didn’t recognize any of them. Were they preventing Cas from healing? Thankfully, none of Cas’s wounds appeared fatal, but they had to incredibly uncomfortable, if not painful, and Dean wanted nothing more than to take Cas away and take care of his injuries. And kill everyone asshole that was responsible for inflicting those injuries on Cas. Eventually, they broke the hug.

      “Hey, Cas,” Dean said, smiling. He just wanted to enjoy this moment for just a little bit, bask in the relief and joy of finding his friend, of Cas being _alive_. He didn’t get a lot of good things in his life. He’d spent two months worried sick his friend was dead and Dean would never learn what happened to him. In his world, this was a good thing.

     So of course it couldn’t last.

      It took a few moments for Dean to notice, but when he did, his blood turned to ice.

      Dean had known Cas for years. A long ass time. He’d seen Cas as a douche angel, and a fallen angel, and mad with power, and crazy, and human, and through all that, Cas always maintained several core aspects of his personality. One of which being his inability to maintain normal eye contact. Cas always stared so intensely, concentrated, and it was a little unnerving, if Dean was being honest. It felt like Cas could see all the way down to his core, that there was nothing Dean could hide from him.

     Right now, Cas’s gaze did not hold that trademark, intelligent spark. They weren’t squinted in concentration, burning in their intensity. They were unfocused, and Dean realized, not looking at Dean at all, but just past Dean, right over his shoulder. Dean’s tongue was fat in his mouth. It was then he realized that there was something strange about Cas’s face. He hadn’t seen it at first, but now that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the cell, he could make it out. Pink angry scars marred the top half of Cas’s face, in irregular patterns, dipping down onto the tip of his nose. The skin was swollen. Dean ran his fingertips gently over the area, barely brushing, but Cas hissed at the contact and flinched away.

_Burns_ , Dean realized with horror. Cas’s entire face was horribly burned. His stomach rolled uneasily.

    “Cas?” Dean said again, swallowing. He waved his hand in front of Cas’s face, expecting _something_. A blink, a scowl, some sort of reaction, but he got _nothing._ Dean look at Sam briefly. Sam’s eyes were wide, eye brows disappearing under his bangs, and it did nothing to lessen Dean’s anxiety.

    “Cas, can you see me?” Dean asked.

     Cas’s shoulders deflated. Dean’s grip tightened.

     “No,” Cas said miserably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone who may have received an email alert about this chapter. It was NOT posted yesterday, but I had saved it as a draft, and for some reason that sent out alerts to some subscribers.

CH 2

“You can’t see anything?” Sam asked, pushing past Dean. Dean let himself be manhandled, pliant, his mind a whirlwind of rage and depression.

“No,” Cas said impatiently.

Dean focused in on Mick, holding a handkerchief to his bloodied temple, and it was like everything else vanished.

Dean got to his feet and stalked over to the crying idiot. Dean yanked him up his shirt and collar and slammed Mick against the far wall. Mick’s head slammed against the wall, the sound echoing down the corridor. The monsters behind the other doors began to howl.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean seethed.

Mick put his hands up defensively. “It was an accident, I swear, we didn’t mean—“

Dean pulled back and slammed Mick into the wall again, jarring the man’s already injured head. Mick bit down into his tongue. Blood dribbled down his chin.

“You _blinded_ him?”

Mick cried in pain. “No, no! Please, I swear, it was an _accident_ —“

“You _accidentally_ blinded him,” Dean growled. An accident…accidentally blinding Cas was worse than them doing it on purpose, these pathetic, _incompetent_ , blundering, _morons._

“It was an accident, I swear, we didn’t want this, he, he got a bit cocky. Ketch was teasing it with holy fire—“

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Bastard angel lunged at Ketch, made him drop the torch—“

Dean threw Mick to the ground and stomped on his hand. Dean heard the distinct sound of bones crunching, and he twisted his foot, digging his heels into the metacarpals. Mick’s scream was high and sharp.

“Dean!” It was Sam.

Dean turned. Sam was standing in the doorway, holding Cas by the elbow. Sam had given Cas his FBI trench coat. Dean was glad they were able to give Cas some semblance of modesty. Anything was better than keeping Cas naked, like a fucking zoo animal. In the light of the hallway, Cas’s injuries were better illuminated. The burns on his face were worse than Dean had originally thought. Parts of Cas’s hair had been singed off. He didn’t have any eyebrows. His eyelids were puffy, swollen to twice their size.

“Dean,” Sam said softer. “What are we doing with him?” Though Sam’s voice was soft, his eyes were cold, detached, and hard as stone, staring down at Mick, with an expression Dean couldn’t place.  His nostrils flared. Dean knew his brother better than he knew himself: Sam was barely containing his rage. If it weren’t for having Castiel beside him, Sam probably would’ve joined Dean in the ass kicking.

Everything about this situation was awful, fucked six ways to hell, but Dean was glad that his brother was on his side for this—on Cas’s side.

“Please,” Mick whined pitifully. “Please, I swear, it wasn’t my idea at all, it was _Ketch_ —I told him to leave the halo alone--“

Dean bent down and grabbed Mick by the shirt collar again. He rattled Mick. Dean wanted to stay and make Mick as black and blue as Cas was and then some. He wanted Mick to suffer, and Dean had forty years up his sleeve, knew exactly where and how to make it hurt—

“Dean.”

It was Cas this time. Dean spun around, impatience beginning to get the better of him.

“Dean, leave him.”

“Cas, you can’t be serious!” Dean said.

“You’re better than this.” Cas’s gaze was directed towards the ground. “He’s not worth losing yourself.”

Dean’s throat clogged up. He felt like he’d been bunched in the face. He forced a gulp, though it went down slowly and painfully. The rage was causing a cluster headache. His right eye was throbbing. Dean unconsciously looked at his arm, reminding himself it was blemish free. There was no Mark of Cain. This rage was all him.

Dean didn’t understand how Castiel could still much such claims about him, after everything. Castiel knew better than anyone, even Sam, what sort of tattered remains made up Dean’s soul. Castiel knew of all Dean’s sins, every act Dean made in Hell, and how Dean had enjoyed it. Even now, Mick’s screams, brought some joy to Dean. Castiel had to know that.

How could Castiel know all that, and still make those sorts of claims? Dean wasn’t tainted. Castiel may have raised Dean from Hell, but Hell still lived inside Dean.

Regardless…Dean wanted to be the man Castiel thought he was. He exhaled slowly.

“Exactly!” Mick said, voice high and panicked. “Yes, I swear, Dean, I’m—“

“You,” Dean spat, “are _nothing_. You’re not even a hunter.”

Mick swallowed.

“You feel like a man?” Dean growled, tightening his fist in Mick’s collar. Mick gasped at the shift, and Dean hoped the bastard had to fight to breathe. “You feel strong, smart, picking on someone that can’t defend themselves? It get your rocks off?”

They kept Cas deaf, bound, dumb, and _blind_. Cas was completely defenseless, and Dean thought of how Cas had flinched and tried to pull away when Dean first touched him.  Cas had no idea what sort of touch was awaiting him, if it would be gentle or harmful. Probably all the touches were harmful, and Cas had lived with that reality for two months. But Cas had no way of knowing what or who was coming for him, no way to anticipate his attacker’s moves or intentions.

“You’re a coward,” Dean said. Dean had no patience or tolerance for cowards. “A spineless, weak, pathetic coward.”

Mick spat a wad of blood. “Please, I was only following orders, I swear—“

A mindless drone, on top of a coward, god, Dean yearned to just put a bullet between his eyes right then and there--

“Dean, we have to get going,” Sam said. Dean turned and saw how Cas leaned into Sam, knees trembling beneath him.

“Are you going to kill me?” Mick said, voice cracking.

Dean dropped him and gave one good kick to the gut. “I’m not done with you,” Dean said. “There’s not a damn place on Earth you can crawl into that I won’t find.” Getting Cas home, somewhere safe, was the priority. Dean would come back for every last one of this pathetic mongrels another time. But first--

Dean reached for Cas’s other hand, and together he and Sam lead Cas up the stairs, slowly and carefully, as Cas’s movement were stiff and unsteady.

Dean kept up a gentle mantra as they ascended, with “We’re almost there, Cas, just a little more.”

When they made it back to the lobby, they were met with Cindy and at least ten other people that had to be members of the British Men of Letters. Sam and Dean stopped just at the threshold of the door.

“Let us go and no one has to get hurt,” Sam said, straightening to his full height.

It was a mix of men and women, ranging from several different age groups. They stared at the brothers intensely, eyes bouncing between the brothers and Castiel. Dean reached behind him, hand hovering just above his holster.

The oldest person there, a man with a thinning hairline, cleared his throat and stepped off to the side. “Stand down, agents.”

They all parted like the Red Sea. Sam and Dean escorted Cas out quickly, heads held high and with purpose to their step.

All in all, they were in and out of the HQ in less than fifteen minutes. Dean helped Cas get into the backseat, and then he went to trunk and dug through his duffel bag until he found a pair of his more comfortable sleep pants. Dean went back to the backseat door and helped Cas pull the pants up. He slide in next to Cas, handing Sam the car keys. Dean wasn’t going to let Cas rot in the backseat by himself, not in his…condition. He dug under the seats and pulled out the first-aid kit.

“You okay?” Dean asked quietly, assessing Cas’s wounds. He still had a hard time examining the awful burns. Dean had seen and suffered lots of injuries in this life, but burns were always the worst, and even minor burns were incredibly painful. They ached and throbbed and for days. And that was if they avoided becoming infected.

Dean would always take getting shot versus receiving a bad burn.

“I’m okay,” Cas said. Dean met Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Sam’s brows were drawn close together, a worry wrinkle popping out of his forehead.

The wounds Cas had were too old to be sutured. All Dean could do was lather them in antibiotic cream and bandage them as gently as possible.

It was going to be a long, tedious drive back to the bunker. Dean busied himself with taking care of the wounds he could, stomach churning each time he across an aged bruise, or thin, fresh scar. It took him over an hour to get everything done to his liking. Cas’s back especially was a macabre painting of bruising and knife wounds, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what the Men of Letters had been trying to do. Dean didn’t have the heart to ask Cas how successful they had been. Not yet.

Dean taped the last piece of gauze into place, and patted Cas gently on the arm. “All done,” Dean said. “Cas, how’s your grace?” None of Cas’s wounds had improved after getting out of the cell and away from the range of the sigils. Cas touched his neck.

“I don’t know,” Cas said softly. “I can’t feel it.”

“You running on human?”

“Approximately.”

Dean bit his lip and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He exhaled and tried to focus on the task at hand. He found an unopened bottle of Motrin and poured two pills into his palm. Without knowing the state of Cas’s grace, it was better to be safe than sorry. Two might only just take the edge off and not do much substantially, but at least Dean wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally overdosing Cas. Dean grabbed a water bottle from under the seats. It was warm, but better than nothing.

“Here,” Dean said, giving Cas the pills. “Take these.” He broke the seal on the water bottle and passed it to Cas.

Cas took the pills and swallowed about half the water bottle in two large sips.

Dean couldn’t stand the elephant in the room much longer. “Cas, what happened?”

Cas took another long draw of the water. Dean’s eyes flickered and met Sam’s once more. “Eyes on the road, Sammy,” he said.

“I received a call from Arthur Ketch, asking for my assistance in a hunt. I was tracking the Kelly Kline lead in Kentucky at the time, but, the trail had gone cold, and Ketch claimed he knew something. He refused to tell me over the phone. He said he would tell me what he knew in person, _after_ I had helped him with his case. I didn’t think much of it, to be honest. I…I don’t remember much. I met with him at the Tennessee border and then….I remember something hurting, very badly…and then I was in that cell.” Cas was quiet for a moment. “Where  are we?”

“Mississippi,” Dean said, inhaling. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm.

“Oh,” Cas said. He reached up and touched his eyes. Dean ‘s breath shuddered in his chest.

“Don’t do that,” he said, grabbing Cas’s hands gently. “You could get them infected.”

Mick said Cas’s eyes had been burned with holy fire. That’s what hurt him, caused those horrible scars and took Cas’s sense of sight. Dean’s mind was racing. The obvious question was poised on his tongue, but he couldn’t force it out. _Is it permanent_?

“Dean,” Cas said. Dean’s heart was pounding in his chest. Dean let go of Cas’s hands. Cas reached up and touched Dean’s face. His touch was feather light, just like it always was, and he traced the contours of Dean’s face, up his cheekbones, across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose.

“Sam is here too?” Cas asked.

“I’m right here,” Sam said. “I’m in the driver’s seat. We’re going home, Cas.”

“Home,” Cas said, sighing. He leaned back against the seat.

“That reminds me,” Dean realized, cursing to himself. “We should call Mom. Let her know we found you.”

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his mother’s number. It rang and rang and rang and then it went to voicemail. Dean tried not to be disappointed.

“Mom, it’s Dean. We found Cas.” Dean looked at Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas, bruised and cut up, blind… Somethings were better explained in person. “Call me back ASAP.” Dean hung up.

His Mom had been working with these fancy ass Men of Letters for months. All this time, Cas had been in some dingy basement with Mom’s new besties, while Sam and Dean tore up and scavenged the entire continental US.

Dean had told her those guys were bad news, he told her they were assholes, that he didn’t trust them. They had kidnapped and tortured _Sam_ and she still insisted on working with them, that their way was the better way. Would she still feel that same way after Dean told her what they had done to Cas? She knew Cas was missing, and that he and Sam were going mad in grief searching for him. Mary had seen Mick and Ketch, worked cases with them, probably had dinner with them (Couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with her own kids, but Dean was betting she was having a grand ole time schmoozing it up with these British asshats), and the entire time, they’d been tormenting Castiel.

Cas’s hand was on his arm, giving a gentle squeeze. “You’re angry,” he said.

Dean exhaled through his nose. “Not angry. Frustrated.” Dean pinched his nose. “How are you doing, Cas?”

As crazy as it was for him, Dean couldn’t even begin to imagine what Cas was going through. Cas had already lost most of his angelic senses through the years, and now he had lost the basic and most vital human sense. Cas blinked slowly. The action looked painful. Dean winced in sympathy.

“It’s strange,” Cas said. “I’m….I’m not really sure how I’m feeling.”

“That’s okay,” Dean said. “We’ll figure this out, Cas. We’ll fix this.”

Dean caught sight of Sam in the rearview—his eyebrows were pinched together, mouth turned downward. Dean scowled at Sam.

“We _will_ fix this,” Dean said. He refused to accept anything else. They had taken down God’s sister for crying out loud! They could fix this.

They had to fix this.

Dean had more questions. What the hell did the Brits want with Cas, was the most prominent one, the one that was pounding against Dean’s skull. He wished he’d done more to that crying bastard, Mick. Bastard deserved every ounce of pain that came upon his head.

And then of course, there was Arthur Ketch, who apparently was the mastermind in this entire debacle. That guy always gave Dean the heebie jeebies. With his pressed suits, and grenade launchers, and wit, and creepy smiles. Dean shuddered just thinking about him. Before, he’d been nothing more  than a minor nuisance, and the antagonism between Dean and Ketch was just rivalry.

Now, it was personal. Now, there would be blood. Dean would ensure it with his dying breath.

“Okay, Dean,” Cas said. Dean huffed. He wasn’t sure if Cas believed him. Cas was probably just trying to appease him. That was okay. Dean didn’t need Cas to believe him. He _would_ fix it.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. It was barely one in the afternoon, and the day already seemed so long.

“Why don’t you rest up, Cas?” Dean said. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

-0-0-0-

Dean wasn’t sure if Cas slept, but he eventually fell into some sort of restful, meditative state, and Dean would take that. Selfishly, it wasn’t all for Cas’s benefit. Dean needed it a bit too, to try and wrap his head around this entire effed up situation without having a freak out in front of Cas.

His mind was stuck on many things, repeating over and over in a loop. How did the Men of Letters get the jump on Cas to begin with? It sounded like they drugged him somehow, but Dean had seen the guy down shot after shot after shot of Bobby’s specially brewed hard liquor and not blink, so what in Hell had they used to knock him out?

He was also stuck on the fact that Cas wasn’t dead.

Cas told him that just touching holy fire would kill an angel. Even the barest hint would destroy them. It was why holy fire worked so well as traps. It wasn’t like a devil’s trap, where the demon was physically incapable of leaving. Angels weren’t stuck: attempting to leave would kill them.

So how had Cas been burned with holy fire, but remained alive? Not that Dean was ungrateful. He’d lost Cas so many times over the years, and had just recently had to relive that reality, of Cas nearly dying, wounded and seizing, and Dean had been helpless. If Cas died, Dean knew he wouldn’t be able to bounce back from it, not this time. Cas was too important. It’d be like losing Sam.

Dean would take Cas in any form, angel or man, crazy or sane; hell, he’d take Cas as a freaking squirrel if the other alternative was death.

But, that holy fire should have killed Cas, and it didn’t, and that stirred undue concern in Dean’s blood.

He’d take Cas like this, too. Battered and blind.

 _Not for long_ , Dean reminded himself. Cas wasn’t going to be blind forever. They’d figure something out. Wheedle Crowley into fixing Cas, or trapping an angel and forcing them. Dean would climb Mount Everest and scream at God until he was blue in the face, until that deadbeat took two minutes off his fucking ‘vacation’, got off his ass, and healed Cas. It was the least the jerk owed Cas. The very, very, least.

He could feel his blood pressure rising. Dean looked out the window, at the passing scenery as they made their way back into Kansas. They stopped for gas. At the convenience store, Dean picked up cold bottles of water, a pack of beef jerky for him and Sam, and fruit snacks for Cas.

“Eat,” Dean ordered, tearing the bag open for Cas. He was prepared for Cas’s usual, _I am an angel and I don’t need to eat_ speech, but it never came.

Dean should have been glad, but the elation never came. The fact that Cas wasn’t arguing with him was cause for concern. He covered his worry by forcing a water bottle into Cas’s hands, with the demand that Cas have it finished by the time they got to the bunker.

Much of the drive passed in silence. Dean was fidgety. He kept staring at Cas, feeling guilty that he could and Cas had no way of knowing. Cas was calm, composed, as per usual, but Dean felt like a train wreck on the inside. He was a shitty friend. According to Cas, his time with the Winchesters was the best of his life, but Dean failed to see that. It seemed like Cas was never not hurt in one way or another these days.

Dean couldn’t shake the images of Ramiel and the Lance of Michael out of his head. That had been horrible. Maybe Cas wasn’t actively dying at the moment, but this wasn’t any better. He was _blind_.

When they pulled into the bunker garage, it was past sunset. Mom’s car was already parked in her spot. Dean double checked his phone, and swallowed when he saw that she hadn’t called him back..

Sam parked the car.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean said, taking hold of Cas’s wrist. “We’re home.”

Cas smiled softly, the sort of gentle, simple grins that were rare, but it settled some of the uneasiness in Dean’s stomach. Cas was glad to be home.

It took some maneuvering, but Dean helped Cas out of the Impala without bashing his head, so Dean considered that a small victory. Once they were out and standing, Dean hooked his elbow with Cas’s.

“Slow and steady,” Dean said. Sam hovered behind, hand not touch Cas, but ready to reach out if needed.

Dean was nervous, but he began walking, and kept his pace and stride slow and reasonable.

It was slow going, thanks to Dean, but they made it into the hallway of the bunker.

Mom was just outside the door, leaning on the wall.

“Hi, boys,” she said, smiling. Dean looked her in the eye, and watched as the smile fell the moment she inspected Cas. Dean swallowed, eyes sweeping over Cas again too. “Castiel,” she said, and whatever was supposed to come after it died on her lips.

“Mary,” Cas said. Dean’s heart seized at Cas’s tone. It was downright cheerful, and enough to make Dean nauseous. Cas slipped out of Dean’s grasp. Dean went to grab back on, but he stopped at the last moment, due in part to Sam’s pointed glare. Cas managed the five steps between him and Mary and then he hugged Mary.

“You are well?” Cas asked, true sincerity in his voice.

Mary swallowed. She was slow to raise her arms and return Cas’s embrace. Her eyes were off looking at the wall. “I’m fine, Castiel,” she said. There was a hitch in her voice.

Dean studied her. He felt like a jackass for doing it, but there was something in his Mom’s voice, the way she avoided her eyes, that made him antsy.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean said, putting his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Cas was compliant, sagging out of Mary’s hug, and Dean directed Cas to his bedroom while trying to ignore the notion in his gut that something was very, very wrong with Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr! I'm darkheartinthesky on there as well! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will try for once a week updates from here on out. Work and grad school have me very busy at the moment. Thanks for understanding.

CH 3

                Dean helped Cas get settled into bed. He led Cas to the bed and eased him into a sitting position. After that, he was at a loss for what to do. What was helpful, and what was intrusive? Fortunately, Cas answered that for him by turning around, pulling his knees onto the bed. Cas spread his hands wide and moved them slowly and meticulously over the expanse of the bed. Cas felt around for the edge of the blanket, the pillows, the headboard and nightstand. He did this with the same intense scrutiny he did everything, the trademark concentrated frown resting on his face.

                “You need anything?” Dean cleared his throat and forced himself to ask. Not that he expected an affirmative; Cas was too proud to ever admit to needing help, unless circumstances were dire. Cas’s head tilted in Dean’s direction—it wasn’t like his signature Confused Castiel tilt, though. Cas angled his head back towards Dean.

                “I don’t think so,” Cas said.  

                “Uh, your wounds…” Dean’s mouth was dry. Much of Cas’s wounds were buried under gauze and Sam’s jacket, but Dean still saw them in the forefront his mind. Especially the ones that had been on Cas’s back, right above the shoulder blades. Red, angry lines that stood out starkly against Cas’s skin. “They doing okay? You want some more Motrin?”

                Cas shook his head. “I’m fine.”

                He really wasn’t, not a bit, but Dean was still in too much shock himself to press the issue. For now, Cas’s injuries weren’t going to kill him. Cas was in the safest place in North America. Nothing was going to hurt him, and though Cas’s wounds were hard to look at, they weren’t infected and would heal on their own, eventually.

                As for their other problem…

                They’d deal with that, too.

                For now, though: sleep.

                “Rest up,” Dean said. “I’m going to leave your door open. Call if you need anything.”

                Cas didn’t say anything. He pulled back the coverlet and managed to get situated comfortably. Dean still stood awkwardly in the doorway. Stepping away from Cas was like another grand battle he had to fight, and it took him over a minute to discover the will power to leave. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t do anything for Cas just standing vigil over his bedpost, so Dean forced himself down the hall, leaving Cas’s door wide open.

                He went to the kitchen, stomach grumbling. He needed something more substantial than beef jerky. He thought he still had eggs in the fridge, and considered making a quick omelet before he moved on to research.

                Except when he got into the kitchen, he was hit with the aroma of food.

                Mary and Sam were at the table, a large pizza box out in front of them. Sam was picking at his slice, Mary treating hers with the same amount of enthusiasm. Mary twisted her head towards Dean’s direction, forcing a smile. Her face looked pained. Dark circles marred the skin beneath her eyes.

                “I stopped for food,” she said, motioning towards the pizza. “When I got your message. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to surprise you.” She smiled mirthlessly.

                Dean stared at the box of pizza.

                “Thanks,” he said, mouth going dry. He sat down. The chair was uncomfortable.

                “Eat,” she said, nudging the box towards Dean. Dean’s throat tightened. He reluctantly took a slice: grease dripped from the pizza onto the table in thick, gooey drops. Dean’s stomach twisted at the sight.

                It was deathly quiet for several moments. Dean chewed on his slice, but he was having trouble tasting it.

                Mary cleared her throat. For a moment, it was the loudest sound on Earth. “Does…does Castiel not want any?”

                “He’s sleeping,” Dean said. The pizza box was nondescript; Dean couldn’t tell from what restaurant Mary got it from, but it was awful. The cheese was like glue. The crust was undercooked.

                “Oh,” Mary said. “I thought angels didn’t sleep.”

                “They don’t,” Dean said. They’re not supposed to sleep, or eat, or _get hurt_ …they’re not supposed to die.

                _You’re my family, and I love you._

Dean didn’t realize he’d been crushing his pizza slice until tomato sauce had coated his palms. He looked at in disgust. He wiped it on a napkin.

                Sam cleared his throat. “I’ve been filling Mom in,” Sam said.

                “I’m glad you found him,” Mary said. “I never imagined Mick would…”

                Dean snorted. “Well, according to our good friend, Mr. Bean, it was your best pal that was the brains behind this entire operation.” Which wasn’t surprising. Mick wasn’t playing with a full deck. Mr. Ketch, on the other hand…With his smarmy…smarminess, and his stupid tie, and greased back hair, and polished shoes….

                _Asshole_ , Dean thought, wiping the last of the sauce off.

                Mary’s face paled. “You think Arthur was behind all this?”

                “ _Arthur_!” Dean said. He nearly choked on his drink. His esophagus sputtered, and he coughed, face burning.

                “That is his name, Dean.”

                “His name should be _Mega Douchehole Asshat_ —“

                “Dean,” Sam snapped. Though there was nothing malicious in Sam’s tone, Dean glared at Sam. Sam turned back to Mom. “Cas said Ketch called him, and set him up,” he explained, looking at Mary. “Where is Ketch?”

                Mary crossed her arms over her chest. She stared at her half eaten pizza slice. “I don’t know.”

                “You don’t know?” Dean asked, clenching his fists. How could she not know? They’d been glued to the hip for who knows how long, working hunts, sharing weapons, doing---

                Dean didn’t want to finish that thought, refused to even consider it.

                “I don’t keep track of his comings and goings,” Mary snapped. “We work together here and there. We don’t follow each other everywhere. I don’t report to him.” She didn’t say it, but Dean heard what she wasn’t saying. _I don’t report to you._ Dean chewed on his lip. Maybe Mary didn’t have to report to him. Cas didn’t have to either. But it was nice to know where your loved ones were, what they were doing, when they planned on coming home. It was how Dean knew they were _safe._ Cas missing his check-in was how Dean knew he was in trouble. If Dean had waited days, or even weeks, before getting concerned…

                He didn’t want to finish that thought, either.

                “Well, find out where he is, so we can kick his ass!” Dean yelled.

                “What good is that going to do, Dean?”

                “It’ll make me feel better, for starters,” Dean said, shoving away his plate. His appetite was nonexistent. He had had it with this conversation already. Was his Mom actually defending these assholes? It was bad enough that she was working with them; even Sam had turned coat for a little while, taking case after case the Brits threw their way, but at least _Sam_ had the decency to tell them to shove after Cas first went missing. Sam had his priorities straight.

Maybe he should go check on Cas. Make sure Cas really didn’t need anything, food or painkillers. Keep him company.

“Stay put,” Mary said, eyes hardening. “I can tell what you’re thinking. He’ll be fine, Dean. We’re not done talking.”

“He’s blind,” Dean snapped. “He’s been tortured or, or _experimented_ on or something. He’s far from fine! And you’re deflecting! You didn’t see it. They have a zoo of creatures, and they had Cas in a cell, or something. You didn’t see how they had him, Mom. He was chained to the _floor_ by the _neck_!”

Mary swallowed. She made a motion to say something, but then appeared to change her mind. Her mouth snapped shut. Sam’s eyes were wide and nervous.

“Mom,” Sam said, voice much softer than Dean’s. “We need to talk to Ketch. The sooner, the better.”

“So you can kill him?”

Dean clicked his tongue. He wouldn’t kill Ketch…Not at first…

Mary looked between Sam and Dean bewildered. “I can’t believe he would do that to Castiel,” she said. Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s…it’s despicable, horrific, I,” Mary gulped, and looked down at her lap, “but Arthur’s plan...He’s a good hunter. We need him to rid the world of all supernatural creatures. He’s a necessary evil.”

“No, he’s not,” Dean said. “Sam and I, and all the other hunters, do a fine job on our own taking care of the monsters on our soil. We don’t need anything from him.”

“Really?” Mary said impatiently.

“Really,” Dean said.

“They’ve rid the UK of vampires entirety. The werewolf population is down by ninety percent. They know what they’re doing, Dean. Their methods…unorthodox as they are, work.”

Dean was so done. So, so, so done. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, pushing his seat back. It screeched against the concrete floor. Sam winced, but Mary remained stony.

Dean stormed out into the bedrooms, hands clenched into tight fists. He fought against the urge to slam his fist into the walls, or kick at them until the toes of his boots was worn through. He fought against the nausea that rocked against his stomach.

“Dean?”

Dean spun around, breath caught in his throat. Cas was standing outside his door, leaning heavily against the wall. It was strange to see Cas in sweat pants. The hems were just a tad too long, coming down on Cas’s heels.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Dean said, trying to swallow his anger. It was a battle to keep his voice subdued. He approached Cas, and gently put his hand on Cas’s shoulder, wary of all the injuries Cas had sustained. Dean had them memorized and could map them out, even with Cas huddled in Sam’s gigantic trench coat. Dean should probably get him changed into something better fitting, but that was a battle Dean just wasn’t ready to fight yet.

“I heard fighting,” Cas said.

“No one’s fighting,” Dean said. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” He steered Cas back to his bed, muttering under his breath the entire time complaints about Cas’s inability to follow basic orders. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cas’s burns.

“Dean,” Cas said, very seriously.

“Yeah?”

“Did you find my angel blade?”

Dean stopped walking suddenly. Cas’s momentum was thrown off and he stumbled. Dean had to strengthen his grip to keep Cas upright, swearing under his breath.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean said licking his lip. He hadn’t thought about it, but of course it was obvious. They had taken Cas’s weapon. “Uh, no, Cas,” Dean said. “I didn’t see it anywhere. Sorry.”

Cas’s face fell, and it was like a punch in the gut.

“We’ll get you another one,” Dean said.

Cas’s expression didn’t change. “But that one’s mine. I know it must seem frivolous, but I’ve always had that blade. In heaven, our swords are earned, not simply freely given. The ones you and Sam have are from,” Cas paused and swallowed, “angels I’ve had to kill. But I always had my blade.”

Dean chewed on his lip. Now he just hated those assholes even more than he did two minutes ago, which he didn’t think was even possible; but it wasn’t bad enough they had hurt Cas physically, they put that tone in Cas’s voice. That despondent, fearful tone, that Dean didn’t even recognize in his best friend.

“It’s not frivolous if it’s important to you,” Dean said. “We’ll get it back, I promise.”

Just another thing to add to his list of things to do when he tracked down Arthur Ketch. Get Cas’s blade, then stab the guy in the face. Dean would be happy with that.

He helped Cas sit down on the bed.

“Now stay there,” Dean said firmly, but gently. “I’ll get some ice for your eyes.” Because they weren’t looking any better, not at all, and there wasn’t much Dean could do for them, not until he researched some more, but if he could at least take the discomfort away, even just a little bit—

Dean patted Cas’s shoulder and exited his bedroom, going back into the kitchen. He ignored Mary and Sam’s pointed, uncomfortable looks. He interrupted something, because neither of them were talking. Sam was trying avoid his gaze entirely, and Mary’s was burning into Dean’s back. Dean pulled an ice pack from the freezer, and left. He was back in Cas’s room in under a minute. Cas hadn’t moved a micrometer. Dean sat next to him, the bed dipping with his added weight.

“Here,” Dean said, giving Cas the ice pack. Cas took it tentatively. His movements were slow, but he pressed it up to his eyes.

Dean stared at him for a minute.

“Cas,” Dean said softly. The air around him felt fragile, and he so did not want to broach this topic, not because it angered him, but he also didn’t want to upset Cas--but it had to be done.

_Man up, Winchester_ , he thought to himself. _Get it done with._

“What,” Dean began. His voice faltered and he had to start again. “What were they doing to your, to your wings?”

Cas’s shoulders drew together.

“They wanted my feathers,” Cas said. “For a spell.”

“What spell?”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Sorry,” Dean said. “Stupid question.”

Angel feathers were components in some of the rarest, most powerful spells. They were a main ingredient in the time-travel spell Dean had done to send Gavin back. Since befriending Cas, Dean would find them occasionally, in the backseat of the Impala, under the tables in the library, on the walking trail that twisted behind the bunker. Whenever he found one, he collected it and secured it safe in a warded jar under his bed. Dean asked about them once. Cas explained that the feathers Dean found were old ones that had just come loose and fallen out, “Like your own hair,” Cas said. “Strands just fall out naturally on their own, and new ones grow back in their place.”

So Dean never worried when he found one, especially since Cas didn’t even seem aware when they did fall out. He just kept on collecting and storing.

He hadn’t found one since before Cas was possessed by Lucifer, though…

“My wings,” Cas said. “They are…not what they used to be. They are damaged. Since regaining my grace, feathers have grown back, very, very slowly, but they do not hold much power. I haven’t had a proper molt in many years; but I couldn’t bear the thought of letting them have even just one of my feathers.”

The ice pack began to melt. Water dripped onto Cas’s lap.

“Yeah,” Dean said. His mouth was dry. He recalled seeing Benjamin’s wings burned into the walls of that bar, the skeletal shadows being more bone than feathers. It didn’t compare with the shadows Dean had seen of Cas’s wings throughout the years. Those had been awesome, mighty. They managed to strike fear and belief into Dean’s heart, managed to make him believe in the existence of angels. When Dean thought of Cas’s wings, he still thought of the wings Cas had shown him that day in the barn.

Dean knew that throughout the years, Cas’s wings had been damaged. He just…Cas didn’t talk about. Though to be fair, Dean never asked.

“You made the right call,” Dean said. He would never ask Cas to give up something so intimate. Besides, it was the first rule of torture. No matter how bad it got, you never gave in. You died before you gave your tormentor the satisfaction of winning. As someone who stood on both sides of the blade, Dean had seen it all. He’d seen people who broke after the first cut: just the fear of future pain was enough to melt them into a blubbering mess. Dean had seen people hold out, grit their teeth, spit in his face. Dean respected those ones. Those ones were usually people who had sold their souls for a noble reason: the cure a loved one’s cancer type. The ones Dean despised, the ones who didn’t even need one cut to readily agree to taking up the blade, were always the same sort of vanity: money, fame, to be beautiful, for the man of their dreams to marry them.

Cas was of the former variety, and though Dean despised to know that Cas had suffered, he was proud of Cas for not giving up.

Dean was still going to kill _Arthur_ Ketch the minute he saw him, make him hurt ten times worse than Cas had been hurt. He didn’t think Ketch would take it as stoically as Cas did. People who took that much care after their appearance rarely did.

 “It’s okay,” Cas said. The sudden break in silence startled Dean. It was like someone had tossed icy water onto him.

“Huh?” He said.

Cas smiled sadly. It was bitter, twisted. Dean hated it. “I’ve come to accept the state of my wings. There’s nothing than can be done about them.”

Dean swallowed.

Cas’s hand went up towards his face again, stopping just shy of his eyes.

“This isn’t like that,” Dean implored. “We’re going to fix this. We’ll find a way.”

In fact, Dean was wasting time he could be spending researching. And Cas shouldn’t be up anyway—angel or not, he was sleeping, even if Dean had to make him. Guy had just spent the last two months being tortured, he was entitled to a little nap.

“Okay,” Dean said, clearing his throat. “I’m going to find a way to fix this, I swear. You, rest up—I don’t want to hear it, okay? _Sleep_.”

He took the melted ice pack from Cas, and gently pushed Cas backwards into a lying position.

“Got it?” Dean said.

“I got it,” Cas said, in the standard Castiel irritation, and it eased something in Dean’s chest. Cas was still _Cas_ , no matter what happened.

Dean patted Cas’s shoulder. “This time, stay in bed,” Dean ordered.

He didn’t leave time for Cas to interject with anything. He left, leaving the door open half-way. He walked into the library, pulling Sam’s laptop towards him, and he began.


	4. Chapter 4

CH 4

                “Dean,” Sam’s voice was sleep weary and grating on Dean’s nerves. “Dean, it’s three in the morning. Go to bed already.”

                The blue light of the laptop beamed into Dean’s eyes. The words on the webpage blurred together, becoming illegible. He could feel his corneas burning. But he continued to scroll down the webpage, head leaning in one hand, elbow resting on the tabletop.

                “Dean.” Sam’s voice was sterner this time, and louder. “Dean, look at me.”

                Dean reluctantly did. Sam was in front of him, leaning on the opposite side of the table. Dean briefly glanced at the door way down to the bedrooms. He hadn’t heard Sam approach him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a yawn.

                “What?” Dean said, the bite in his voice sharp as nails.

                “Go. To. Bed.” Sam said, lips popping on the word _bed_. “Seriously, you’ve been up at least twenty-four hours at this point. Research is still going to be there in the morning.” 

                “So, what?” Dean snapped. “Just forget about Cas’s problems? Twiddle my thumbs while he suffers, when there’s something I can be doing?”

                Sam sighed and rolled his eyes. “That is not what I said and you know it. You’re not gonna be any help to Cas running the way you are. Go to sleep. When you wake up, we’ll have a fresh mind. We’ll find something, Dean. But you aren’t any help to anyone like this.”

                Dean sighed. Logically, he knew Sam was right. Exhaustion got people killed out in the field. It made people stupid, careless.  Even though Dean was used to running on just four hours of sleep a night for most of his life, he still made sure he got those four hours. If he didn’t, he was a liability, not just to himself, but those around him.

                “Fine,” Dean said, shutting the laptop. He rubbed his eyes. They ached terribly. He stood up, spine creaking with the action and Dean grimaced. When did he start getting so old? He pressed against his spine and tried to pop it. The sound made Dean’s teeth ache.

                Sam looked at him sympathy. “You know,” he said, “if you would just do yoga with me, you wouldn’t have that problem.”

                “Don’t you ever say that word to me again, Sammy, or I will kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

                Sam snorted. “Sure, Dean,” he said.

                “Cut the sarcasm, you may be the Jolly Green Giant, but I will own you.”

                Sam rolled his eyes. “Just get to bed already, Grandpa.”

                “I am, I am. I’m just gonna check on Cas first.”

                “He hasn’t budged an inch since the last time you checked on him.”

                “I’m just checking—“

                “He’s asleep. I checked in not even five minutes ago. He’s out cold. Don’t disturb him.”

                Dean sighed. He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood Sam’s point. He flipped Sam off though for sassing him, and made his way down the hall.

                He almost didn’t hear it, too focused on his own thoughts and worries, but years of training to be vigilant at every turn didn’t grant Dean such luxuries as being able to miss something.

                He stopped by Mary’s door. He could hear her pacing back and forth across the room. Dean frowned, and rubbed his eyes. What was she still doing up?

                Dean’s throat tightened. He was about to knock on her door, but she began to speak.

                “What the hell were you thinking?” Mary’s voice was low, but Dean could detect rage etched into every word, pure, intense malice.

                Dean shouldn’t be here. He was eavesdropping. He should just walk away and go to bed. Whatever it was, it was Mary’s business. Dean wanted to trust her. He should prove it by walking away.

                But his feet were glued to the ground and he couldn’t find the will power within in him to move.

                “Shut up!” Mary hissed. Dean’s hand clenched into a tight fist. “I don’t want—I don’t care about your excuses! I already warned you once, didn’t I?. . . Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out?”

                She was talking to Ketch. Dean bit his lip. His blood ran hot in his veins, temperature rising. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to storm in there and snatch the phone away from Mary and murder Ketch through the phone.

                “If you’re smart, you stay the hell away from us. We’re—shut up! We’re done! Work your own cases from now on.”

                Mary stopped speaking. Dean could only assume that she hung up.

                Dean swallowed. He backed away from the door like it shocked him and paced anxiously down into his room, securing the door behind him. He felt like a criminal, running from the police. And after hearing all of that, his heart pounded inside his chest. His nerves were on fire. He looked at his bed and didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, even with exhaustion weighing heavily in his bones. His mind was stuck in a loop of angry, anxious aggravation, marred with confusion.

                He didn’t know what to make of his Mom most days. Dad _never_ talked about her. Dean’s only knowledge of his mother was reliant on his own memories, which grew dimmer and further away with each passing year. Some things still lingered, even thirty years later. The smell of cinnamon, tomato rice soup, her soft voice singing “Hey Jude” as she rocked him to sleep.

                But Mary…Mary wasn’t anything like Dean remembered _Mom_ being. Mary didn’t hang around long enough for Dean to get to know her. She didn’t cook, she swore and drank like a sailor, and handled a gun better than a sewing needle. And Dean wasn’t the sort of person to dictate what a “woman’s place” was, he would never—

                But where did all these memories of his Mom come from then? Because when he looked at Mary, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She would defend the Brits one moment, only to verbally attack them in another. Her decision to work with them in the first place….they had _tortured_ Sam. How could she overlook that? “Bigger picture.” Dean scoffed when he thought about it. Bigger picture, yeah. She was fighting for the bigger picture—get rid of all supernatural creatures on Earth. And yeah, it was a nice thought. Nice idea. But it wasn’t going to happen.

                If something sounded too good to be true, it usually was. Everything had its price. Plus, it was just unrealistic. It wasn’t possible to get rid of all supernatural creatures, ever, anywhere on Earth. Monsters weren’t totally stupid. They knew how to avoid detection, live under the radar even from hunters, survive. Like diseases, it wasn’t possible to totally annihilate. Dean would bet his right arm there were still vampires hiding out in London somewhere, even if it was just one. And anyway, the line of monster and human grew thinner and dimmer each day. Ten years ago, Dean would have right for it.

                Now, though?

                He’d met some supposed that monsters that were more human than some of the men Dean had come to know.

                Besides…there was no way Dean could work with them. Not after what they had done to Sam and Cas. Dean couldn’t ever forgive that, not under any circumstances.

                Dean stalked over to his bed and fell face first onto it, pillows flying briefly before flopping back down haphazardly.

                He rubbed at his face. He resisted the urge to get right back out of bed and check on Cas again, make sure there wasn’t anything he needed. Check on Mom, see if she would admit to anything.

                He stayed in bed, though, and tried to block out all those uncomfortable thoughts, just for a little while. For a moment, he just wanted to forget all the problems, pretend his life wasn’t so disastrous and to sleep.

\--

 

                Sleep came eventually, but it was shallow and restless. He managed to get about three hours; not ideal, but enough that he could function somewhat coherently. He was back at the library table, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, and he was scrolling through all the lore he could find. There wasn’t much. Holy oil was rare, and generally undocumented. All Dean could find was mythos on it, on websites that were poorly translated from Arabic or Hebrew. He gave up Internet research two hours in and moved to the books, hoping he would have better luck.

                He should have better luck. The Men of Letters’s library was extensive and amazing, with titles on every subject imaginable, including at least a dozen on angels.

                If only they’d had this gold mine during the Apocalypse…

                He found a book written in Medieval English. That, he could work with. He pulled it off the bookshelf, blew the dust off, and carried it back to his table.

                Sam came in just fifteen minutes after that and grabbed a second book. They sat in silence, no sound except for the occasional turning of pages. Dean was content with the lack of conversation.

                It wasn’t until nearly an hour after that a new sound appeared, sudden and distinct. Dean whipped his head up.

                “What is that?” He said, standing. The sound was low-pitched, spaced evenly. It was a popping sound. Dean looked up at the lights. Was a bulb going out?

                Sam stood up too, the chair screeching against the wood floor.

                “I think it’s Cas,” he said, after a few moments.

                Dean frowned. He looked at Sam incredulously. “Cas?”

                “It sounds like him.” Sam walked to the threshold between the War Room and the bedrooms. Sam looked down the hallway, and chuckled. He leaned against the frame.

                “What? What is it?” Dean said, barreling towards Sam.

                Cas was making his way slowly down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall. Every few steps, he would pause in his walking, and pop his lips, before continuing back down.

                “He’s echolocating,” Sam said. Sam was in full on nerd mode—eye brows raised in interest, studious intent drawn in the lines of his face.

                Dean glared. What was Sam getting all excited about? He shook his head and made his way towards Cas.

                “What are you doing?” he said, wincing at the volume of his own voice. He came off a lot meaner than he intended—but seriously? “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

                “I’m fine,” Cas snapped.

                Dean rolled his eyes. “Come here.” He hooked his arm around Cas’s elbow. “I’m putting you back to bed.”

                “No,” Castiel said harshly. He wrenched his arm from Dean’s grip and leaned back against the wall. “I don’t want to be in there anymore.”

                “C’mon, Dean,” Sam said, footsteps heavy on the concrete floor. Cas was sagging against the door and Dean fought against every urge to reach out and grab onto him again. “He’s been cooped up in there for hours. This is his home, he can have the run of it.”

                Dean’s mind raced of all the dangers of the bunker. There were stairs _everywhere_. Concrete stairs. Metal tables screwed to the floor. Giant, heavy bookshelves that were insecure and wobbly. Not to mention the dozens of rooms that held all sorts of dangers, from cursed objects to faulty electricity. Castiel having the run of the bunker was definitely _not_ a good idea. The poor idiot would get himself killed. He was safest in his room. Dean could bring him whatever he needed, whenever he needed it.

                He couldn’t actually say that, though. Cas wasn’t a prisoner. Dean didn’t like it. He hated it, actually; but Sam was right. If Cas wanted to leave his room, Dean couldn’t stop him without being the asshole.

                And he wasn’t like those British assholes. He wasn’t going to trap Cas.

                He reluctantly lowered his hand.

                “We’re researching,” Sam said. “We’re going to figure this out, Cas.”

                “If there’s anyone who can, it would be you two,” Cas said.

                Dean’s throat tightened. “You want help?” Dean said. He tentatively reached out and put his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “We’re just in the library. You can keep us company.”

                Dean felt the tension deflate out of Cas. Dean took that as a yes. He grabbed firmly, but gently, onto Cas’s shoulders and guided him towards the library, narrating his movements, especially when they went down the small flight of stairs to the War Room, and again, ascending to the library.

                “Sit there,” Dean said, helping lower Cas into a chair. “I’ll grab you a cup of coffee. You still like coffee, right?”

                Cas nodded. Dean patted his shoulder and went to the kitchen. The Keurig maker he got was one of the best investments he’d ever made. He brought Cas back a black coffee, steaming curling out of the cup towards the ceiling.

                “There,” Dean said, pushing the cup slowly and carefully towards Cas. “Twelve o clock,” he directed.

                “Thank you, Dean,” Cas said.

                “Sure,” Dean said, throat tightening. “No problem.”

                He tried to return his focus to the text. He read and dissected it slowly, trying to piece together all the different parts of Medieval English. It was a slow process, but once he was immersed enough in it, he could read it fairly easily, regardless of the antiquated spelling. Every now and then, Sam would ask Cas to clarify something: what a word meant in this specific context, if it was being used literally or metaphorically. Cas was eager to help, and Dean felt bad again for wanting to keep Cas in his room. Of course Cas would lose his mind with boredom, and he liked feeling useful.

                They still didn’t learn anything new. Apparently the knowledge and resources Dean and Sam knew of were the same as Hunters from centuries back. Dean did find one mention of holy oil from an Israeli text, but the information wasn’t useful. According to the author, pouring holy oil in water would stop it from going stagnant. Dean’s nose wrinkled at that. That didn’t sound right.

                After another two hours, Dean slammed the book shut, dust billowing up into the air. He held his head in his hands and twisted his fingers into his hair. Screw this. He was calling Crowley. Should’ve done it from the beginning, saved them all the time they’d just wanted and save Cas some time from suffering.

                He voiced his plan to Sam and Cas.

                “No,” Cas snapped, fingers clenched around the handle of his coffee mug. “I don’t want anything from him.”

                “This may be our best option,” Dean said, trying to be tentative, but only barely holding back his impatience and rage. God, Cas could be such a proud bastard sometimes.

                “Is it our only option?”

                Dean sighed and rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know. But we’ve got bupkiss. Goose eggs. I don’t know where else to look, man, but it’ll take forever if we do this the old fashioned way.”

                “I don’t care,” Cas said. “I don’t want his help.”

                Dean looked to Sam for help. Sam shrugged, lower lip sticking out. Dean motioned angrily towards Cas. “Don’t you start this again, Sam, you’ve got to pick a side!”

                Sam scoffed. “What—what do you want from me, Dean? This is Cas’s choice.”

                “Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Dean slammed his hand on the table, rattling the empty coffee mugs. It was Cas’s choice? Was that supposed to convince Dean? If anything, it only made him more indignant in his plan. Cas made terrible choices! Had Sam forgotten the monstrosity of last year? The choice Cas made then? And that was out of desperation and depression; Dean didn’t want to imagine the sorts of decisions Cas would make out of pride and pure stubbornness.

                Things like “self-care” and “self-protection” were not in Cas’s vocabulary, so no, Dean didn’t think Cas should get a say in matters of his well-being, when the guy was ready to barge head first into any sort quasi-suicide mission that presented itself.

                “Sorry Cas, you don’t get a choice here,” Dean said, standing to his feet. The chair screeched against the floor, and Dean moved to disable the bunker’s warding.

                “Dean,” Sam said, following after him.

                Dean ignored him. He pulled on the level that powered the warding. All the energy turned off, a small _whoosh_ ing sound echoing through the bunker. He pulled his cell phone and called Crowley through speed dial. Good God, he had the King of Hell on _speed dial_. His life was so fucked up.

                It rang twice. Sam had a red bitch face going, but Dean ignored it still, motioning to Sam to shut up.

                “What do you want _now_?” Crowley screamed. Dean flinched, and pulled the phone away from his ear briefly. Crowley’s scream echoed in the chambers of wherever he was.

                “Hey,” Dean said cheerily, “I need a favor.”

                Crowley paused. “You sent my son to his death, and you dare ask me for a favor? Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

                “I’m sorry about Gavin, but it was his call. I didn’t make him do anything. Secondly, I’m the guy you want on your good side, so it’s in your best interest to stay on my good side.”

                Dean could see Crowley’s sneer. “’Do what I say, or I’ll kill you’, is that really the method you’re running on, Winchester? You need something from me. I daresay it should be you staying on my good side, especially since we are batting two me, you nothing on the favor scales.”

                Dean swallowed. Okay, so Crowley had a point. He saved Cas from Ramiel’s poison, and saved Cas earlier this year by going with Cas to fight against Lucifer when he was still wearing poor Vincente.

                But Dean really had no other options, unless he went to an angel, and especially after everything they just went through with Ishim, Dean trusted Crowley with Cas’s safety over any of the remaining feathery douchebags. And god, wasn’t that terrible?

                “Look,” Dean said. “Cas is hurt, and—“  
                “Oh, pardon me, Castiel is hurt? HE’S ALWAYS BLOODY HURT! Your choir boy doesn’t know how not to be hurt!  I know masochists that are better at avoiding pain than him. Can’t he go two hours without getting himself nearly offed—“

                “Shut up!” Dean snapped. “He’s hurt, those British Men of Letters, you know about them?”

                Crowley popped lips. “Not directly. I do know of a facet of your ancestry that has killed a good many of my demons across the pond.”

                “Okay, good,” Dean said. “So you’re familiar. They hurt Cas, bad. Heal Cas, we’ll all go after them together, have a nice sweet piece of revenge pie. Sound good?”

                Crowley appeared behind Dean. The heat was sucked out of the room, causing goosebumps to raise on Dean’s skin. He yelped and spun around.

                “Hello, Squirrel. Moose,” Crowley said, grinning.

                Sam clenched his teeth. “No funny business,” he said. “You’re just here to heal Cas, got it?”

                “Scout’s honor,” Crowley said.

                “No,” Cas’s voice was laced with vitriol, pissy in a way Dean had only heard on a handful of occasions. “I told you, I don’t want anything from him.”

                “Cassie, is that anyway to greet the demon that saved your life?”

                “Oh, my apologies,” Cas snarled. He then said something in Enochian, anger laced through every word. The syllables were elongated, stress put on the consonants instead of the vowels, and it lasted for a good thirty seconds.

                Crowley looked back to Dean and Sam, eyebrow raised in amusement. “I think someone needs their mouth washed out with soap.”

                Dean rolled his eyes. “Get with the healing.”

                “Fine,” Crowley frowned. “Come on, let me see.”

                Cas reluctantly turned his face towards Crowley.

                Crowley’s face fell. His trademark sardonic smirk twisted into a frown. “Now what caused those?” he said, no malice in his voice, just curiosity.

                “Holy fire,” Cas said, in his usual deadpan.

                Crowley visibly gulped. “Oh,” he said, softly. He seemed just as horrified as Dean and Sam had been. He clenched his fist and then looked to Dean. “Oh, I can’t heal that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter: Reference to canon sexual assault. Nothing graphic, it is only mentioned, but just a head ups for anyone who might need it.

CH 5

                “What do you mean you can’t heal that?” Dean screamed. It echoed through the halls of the bunker. Mary’s footsteps came racing down and she appeared in the doorway, gasping.

                “What the hell is going on?” she screamed just as loud as Dean had, and then her eyes locked onto Crowley. “What is he doing here?”

                “Hi,” Crowley said, waving, flashing the sweetest fake smile he could muster.

                “What are you boys doing, get that dagger you have!”

                “Mom, it’s fine,” Sam explained. “He’s here to help Cas.”

                “You let him in?” Mary screamed.

                “Will everyone just shut up for ten seconds?” Dean screamed. Silence shrouded the room like a blanket. The tension was thick enough to choke on it. Dean stepped forward towards Crowley. Inches separated them. Castiel, sitting at the table, seemed so small, and helpless. Dean put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean you can’t heal him?”

                “Those burns are angelic in nature,” Crowley said, eyes narrowing. “Demons, angels. We don’t mix very well, in case you haven’t noticed, being opposites and all. Like electricity and rubber.”

                “No!” Dean said. “No, you have to try—“

                “Dean,” one of Cas’s hands came up and rested on Dean’s hand, the one holding onto Cas’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I told you, we’ll find another way.”

                Dean bit his lip.

                “Sorry, darling,” Crowley said, and for a moment, Dean really believed he meant it. “Frankly, he’s lucky to be alive. That the fire didn’t kill him, well…”

                Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulder. “Why didn’t it kill him?”

                Dean was aware of Sam and Mary just behind him, inching closer and closer.

                “His humanity saved him.”

                Dean looked at Crowley in confusion. Crowley rolled his eyes. Then he looked at Castiel. Really looked at him, studiously.

                “Holy fire kills angels on impact. Just one lick from a flame and— _poof_! Humans, though. Your lot, for as much as it is fragile, is at the same time very resilient. I’d have an easier time getting rid of cockroaches than trying to kill just half the humans on Earth. Stubbornness really does go a long way. The will to live has fought and won over many ailments and disease. Many people survive things they shouldn’t. Many hold on to life, an inch within death, and fight through to live another day. Castiel is not a full angel, not anymore. Not quite human, but not angel enough to die by holy fire.”

                Dean exhaled, some of the tension exiting his body. Okay. Okay, so that wasn’t so bad, was it? Whatever it was that saved Cas, Dean would take it. He wouldn’t complain.

                And he’d known that Cas wasn’t all Angeled Up anymore. It was supposed to be a good thing. In the years Dean had known Cas, he’d seen Cas undergo a drastic change. He was kinder. More merciful. Softer around the edges. He didn’t get so caught up in the bigger picture that he forgot to see the small pieces for what they were. And Dean had never thought less of Cas. Quite the opposite, Dean thought Cas’s kindness, his desire to help, were good things that made him stronger, no matter what the other angels thought or said. They were dicks, monsters in their own right, that didn’t care about anything other than protecting their own hide. Frankly, the farther away Cas was from any of those feathered bastards, the better.

                “Well,” Dean said, throat feeling tight and dry, “what can we do then? To heal him?”

                “Angelic wounds need to be healed by an angel.”

                Dean was about to shout no way. He didn’t want Cas around other angels, ever, but he especially didn’t want them around Cas in this state, when he couldn’t even defend himself.

                But he bite his tongue. And he thought about it.

                Dean wasn’t scared of angels. If anything, angels ought to be scared of him. He’d killed his fair share and proved to be able to hold his own in a fight against them. There was enough space in the bunker to set up a ring of holy fire, and with him, Sam, and Mary to fight—well, they’d fought against worse odds than that and won. He didn’t like it, but he could work with it.

                Except, of course:

                “No,” Cas said, voice acidic. “I don’t want anything from them, and I don’t want anything from you.”

                “Well, aren’t you grateful?” Crowley said.

                “Cas,” Sam said, walking forward. He and Mary had been standing in the doorway, silent observers the entire time. Dean wondered what Sam had been thinking this entire time. “Cas, if an angel is our only hope—“

                “There’s another answer somewhere, and we will find it.”

                Dean rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn Cas and his stupid pride! Of all the angels in existence, he had to go and befriend the only one that would eat his own foot instead of accepting a helping hand when he needed it.

                “We don’t have that kind of time!” Dean said, much louder than he intended. “Look, are there any angels out there that don’t totally hate your guts and want to kill you on sight?”

                Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs, and okay, maybe there was a gentler way he could have put that, but Cas didn’t get subtly if it hit him in the face like a brick, so Dean had become accustomed to not sugar coating things.

                Cas was quiet for a moment, stewing his anger. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. Dean couldn’t tell if Cas was lying or not.

                “Can I go now?” Crowley said, eyes looking anywhere but at Sam, Dean, or Cas. “Fun as this has been—“

                “Will you can the sarcasm for once?” Dean snapped. “It’s fine, whatever. We can deal with one angel. We’ve got enough resources to keep one contained.”

                “I take it I don’t have a choice in this either?” Cas said drily.

                An angry, sarcastic retort was perched on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but at the very last second, it vanished, and he stood with his mouth hanging open like an idiot. He processed what exactly Cas had just said.

                Cas had fallen for free will. The ability to make his own choices, and accept the consequences that came with that. Dean was taking away Cas’s choice. His free will. Was he really spitting on everything Cas had sacrificed, desecrating Cas’s fall?

                Okay, Cas was making a choice. But it was a stupid choice. Surely there was some kind of clause there? A clause where it made it okay for Dean to speak on Cas’s behalf?

                He looked to Sam for help, but Sam just shrugged.

                “Uh,” Dean said. “It’s—it’s not like that, Cas.”

                “Then what is it like?”

                “I—“ he lost his words again.

                “I’ll leave you two to your lovers’ spat,” Crowley said. “Let me know where those old Redcoats are hiding and I’ll make sure they get what’s coming to them.” Crowley vanished.

                “Useless asshole,” Dean spat. He let go of Cas’s shoulder and walked to the other side of the table. He needed to gather his composure, come up with something to tell Cas. Because it wasn’t like what Cas was implying. It wasn’t. Dean wasn’t taking away Cas’s free will—he was trying to help Cas.

                “You’re making a stupid choice,” Dean said instead.

                “Okay,” Sam said, smacking his lips. “You’ve said enough. Why don’t you go back to bed? I know you didn’t get more than few hours.”

                Dean was about to protest, but Mary interrupted.

                “Wait,” she said. Dean turned to face her.

                She shifted uncomfortably under Dean’s gaze. “I think I know where Ketch and Mick are,” she said.

                                                                                                --

                Sometimes, Sam wasn’t sure what to make of his mother coming back from the dead. Unlike Dean, he hadn’t actually known her. Dean had a few spare memories here and there, one or two stories to tell. Sam didn’t have any of that. To him, _Mom_ was the faded photograph Dean kept in his trinket box; she was the length of sentences Dad wrote about in his journal. She existed in the stories other people told of her. Because of this, he never really had an opinion of his mom other than that she sounded nice.

                Maybe that was why Sam had an easier time letting Mary find herself and explore the new world than Dean. He understood the need to finding one’s place in a world that seemed like they could never fit in.

                At the same time, though, it broke his heart.

                _Since when is life about getting what you want?_

                That was the motherly advice Mary had given him. And since then, Sam’s view of her had been pretty rocky. Because it seemed like, until her death, Mary had escaped the hunting life and set out to do what it was she wanted: have a family.

                But as time goes on, the façade of everything Sam thought his mother to be, all the stories he’d heard of her, fall apart drastically. Like learning that his mom had still hunted even after she married John. Dean lamented all the time that he could never find a pie as good as the sort Mom made, but it turned out Mom didn’t cook at all. Dean’s perfect pie came from a local grocery store.

                Everything Sam thought he knew about his mom didn’t match with up with the reality of what she actually was. When she confessed to working with the Brits, he’d felt betrayed. Like someone stuck ice in his heart. It was the only explanation. Some nights, he still work in a cold sweat, dreaming of the blow torch to his foot.

                Or….

                Or of the dream Toni had forced into his mind. Some nights, he got out of bed at 3 am and went to shower, turning the water as hot as he could stand it, in an attempt to try and burn the memories out of him.

                Mom didn’t know all the details. Not the ones that kept him up at night, feeling like a scared, stupid child; but she knew they had hurt him. Actually, the only person who probably knew everything Sam had suffered was Cas. When Cas healed Sam’s ribs and foot, there was a brief moment when he looked so sad. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if he had seen the mental torment Toni put him through, but if he did, he never brought it up. Sam was grateful. Sometimes, he thought about asking Cas to remove that memory, same as Cas did with his hell memories, but he couldn’t find the courage to ask such a thing. All the abuse Cas had withstood over the years dealt a great blow to his grace. Cas always looked so worn down, and in pain. The events of the lake house were a horrid reminder that Cas wasn’t invincible. So Sam couldn’t find it in himself to ask Cas to help him with something non-life-threatening, not when Cas’s grace was so weak. And, he knew Cas blamed himself for Sam’s capture. Sam didn’t. It wasn’t Cas’s fault at all—Cas had been blown away too soon to even get a glimpse at Toni, and angels had no way to protect themselves against banishment. Sam knew it wasn’t Cas’s fault. But Cas. . . He always found a way to spin the blame on him, and Sam didn’t want to make that complex worse than it was by reminding Cas of what he suffered.

                Sam had agreed to work with Mick just because Mick’s plan...well, Mick’s execution was awful, but his intentions were good. And Sam saw the beauty behind Mick’s plan, the need for it. He thought that if they did manage to get rid of all the supernatural creatures—he could have his life. He could get a normal job. He could own a house. He wasn’t _that_ old. There was still hope for marriage and maybe kids and definitely a dog or two, and maybe he could be happy.

                Then Cas disappeared and Dean was drinking himself stupid every other night in his grief, and Mom wasn’t being any help at all, and so Sam had to take control to keep his family working and together. When he and Dean had discovered that it had been the Brits that had kidnapped Cas all along, it had been another betrayal. Sam made the choice to work with them, despite the torment they put him through, and they went around almost immediately and tortured his best friend. Wounded him in a way angels shouldn’t be wounded. Maybe Sam could overlook them hurting him, but he couldn’t ever look past them hurting anyone else. Cas was innocent. He had been trying to help; he was doing a job, searching for Kelly Kline, not bothering anyone.

                It had been an obvious agreement between him and Dean at that point. They may have differed on the Brits before, but now they were just another enemy to take down.

                Mary, though. Mom.

                Sam didn’t know what to make of her. Where did her allegiance lie? She hadn’t defended their actions, not really, but she still defended what they were doing. If the ends justified the means.

                And now she pulled another one-eighty. She said she knew their location. Sam swallowed. It went down his throat slowly and painfully. He wanted to find Ketch too and put a bullet between his eyeballs, but he didn’t know if he could trust his mom’s information.

                And that _hurt_.

                He wanted to think she would never put them in danger, never walk them into a trap, but she’d already done that once already, at Ramiel’s lake house. She put them in under a lie and got Wally killed, almost got Cas killed too. When Ramiel said he’d let them go, if “they just returned what they stole”, she didn’t, and all four of them almost ended up dying that night.

 So, despite everything in his heart, all the yearning in his cells that wanted to grasp onto her and breath in and experience, for the first time, _Mom_ , Sam could not truthfully say he trusted her one-hundred percent.

                Dean was dubious too. “Yeah?” he said, gnawing on his lip, eyes glued to the spot Crowley had vacated. Sam knew Dean had put a lot of hope into Crowley being able to help Cas; even though Sam hadn’t wanted to get Crowley involved, he was disappointed too. “Where are they then?” Dean was probably grateful for the change of subject; anything to avoid an argument with Cas.

                She shifted uncomfortably again. She crossed her arms across her chest. She looked at Castiel. “Somewhere around Hastings, Nebraska,” she said. “They have a base there. Ketch was there just this morning, investigating for some kind of hunt.”

                Hastings wasn’t more than two hours from the bunker. It was practically a milk run to drive there. But how long ago had Mary spoken to Ketch? He voiced this thought.

                “Three, four hours,” she said, shrugging. “I had to confirm his location.”

                “Great,” Dean said, sighing. “He could be a state over by now. Well, we better get moving. Mom, be ready to go in five. Sam, you stay here with Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am darkheartinthesky on tumblr! Come by and say hi. I get bored and lonely and would love to hear from people.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before 12.18 aired, so somethings may deviate just slightly from the canon we were given there. (If you've seen the episode, you'll notice the discrepancy when you see it)
> 
> Beta-ed by the lovely xxinfinitywriterxx

CH 6

                Sometimes Dean was amazed that he could call an actual angel his best friend. This thing was that was ethereal and gigantic and nearly immortal and ancient was his best friend, had forfeited Heaven and the company of other angels, to sit down in the muck of humanity and hang out and drink cheap, gas-station beer. Dean didn’t think about it too much. He couldn’t ever comprehend all that Castiel was, would never be able see Cas’s true form or hear his true voice, so it really wasn’t worth his time trying to assimilate all of him.

                Sometimes, though, Dean thought that having a rabid, incontinent beaver as his best friend would be easier than Castiel.

                “I don’t need to be babysat,” Cas said.

                Dean rolled his eyes and resisted every urge to scream ‘yes you do! “It’s not ‘babysitting’,” Dean said as calm as he could. “It’s keeping you safe. We’ll find Ketch, find a cure, and then everything will go back to normal.” No response from Cas.  Dean tried for humor. “Take a break, have some quality time with Sam. Don’t let him re-decorate the bunker.”

                Cas scowled towards the floor. Dean shot a pleading look at Sam.

                “We’ll be fine,” Sam said. “You guys better get going if you want to catch up with them, make sure they haven’t got too much a head start.”

                Dean hated to leave when Cas was in such a pissy mood still. But, it didn’t appear he had much of a choice. Dean knew Cas pretty well; Cas wasn’t going to just give in and get over it.

                It would be okay, Dean rationalized. Cas was in the safest place in North America. He had Sam to guard him and keep him company. Dean would rather stay with Cas himself, but he also wanted the chance punch Ketch in the face and make him twice as beat up and bruised as Cas was—and he wouldn’t leave Cas with Mary, not alone. Not when Mary was acting cagey. Dean needed to keep her in sight.

                Dean and Mary were ready to go in just under fifteen minutes.

                “We’ll be right back, Cas,” Dean said. “Won’t even notice we’re gone.” He patted Cas’s shoulder affectionately, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Cas tugged on his jacket sleeve.

                “Dean,” he said seriously. “Be careful.”

                “When am I not?” Dean said.

                Cas’s scowled as best he could with how much his face had to be hurting. His gaze was still unfocused, eyes directed to the floor. “Almost always,” he said.

                Dean rolled his eyes. “No keggers while I’m out, got it? And make sure Sam feeds you some real food, none of that rabbit crap, okay?”

                “At least Cas and I aren’t going to have bad cholesterol,” Sam said.

                “I run,” Dean insisted.

“From monsters,” Sam said.

“It all evens out.”

                “Dean,” Mary said, exasperated. Her duffel was slung over her shoulder. She tapped her wrist.

                “Hang tight,” Dean said, his version of goodbye.

                He followed Mary down the hallway into the garage. They threw their bags into the backseat, and then climbed into the car. Dean had to adjust the mirrors and seat from Sam jacking with them, having driven last, and soon he was out driving out the garage door, Mary beside him.

\--

                Driving with his Mom was worse than he had originally anticipated. She was deathly silent, stiff and appeared generally uncomfortable. After about ten minutes of the silence, Dean popped a cassette in, and he didn’t miss Mary’s disgust when the music started to reverberate through the car.

                “What?” Dean said.

                “Nothing.”

                “It’s not nothing,” Dean said. He dialed back the volume. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the music?”

                “Has music not changed during any of the time I’ve been gone? Do people really still listen to AB/CD?”

                “AC/DC,” Dean corrected, swallowing. It was the most Mom thing his Mom had ever said so far.   
“And, _yes_.” The need to protect his music tastes was instinctual. He got it bad enough from Sam. At least Cas never complained about Dean’s taste—Cas was a weird, dorky little guy, but at least he had a great taste in music.

                Mary shook her head and looked out the window. “Your father took me to a concert of theirs once.”

                “Really?”

                “One of the worst experiences of my life. And you know the sort of experiences hunters go through. The music was so loud my teeth ached, and there were just drunk people everywhere, screaming and pushing and puking. The only silver lining of it all was the pot someone gave me.”

                Another shocking image Dean would have never associated his ideal Mary with. “You smoked pot?”

                Mary looked at Dean with a chiding, incredulous glance. “It was the seventies, Dean. Everyone smoked pot.” Then Mary’s smile turned playful and she nudged him with her elbow. “What, you’ve never?”

                Dean stammered for a bit. “Uh. Once,” he admitted. “I puked.” Booze was his go-to indulgence anyway. All the fun without the terrible smell.

                Still, it was nice to have some sort of normal conversation with his Mom. Something that didn’t involve hunting, or fighting, or the Brits. Was this what it was like for normal people?

                “So you really don’t like Dad’s music do you?” he said.

                “God,” Mary said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Probably the only thing about him I couldn’t stand. But, love makes you overlook people’s flaws. What he lacked in good music, he made up for in—“

                Mary stopped, and it took Dean a moment to process what she had been going to say.

                He gagged a little, stomach acid churning, and touching the bottom of his esophagus. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he said.

                Mary chortled next to him.

                “Glad you’re enjoying this,” Dean said. He was going to need brain bleach to scour that image out of his mind. Maybe Cas could do it once he was recovered and Dean had beat Arthur Ketch an inch within his life.

                “What kind of mom would I be if I didn’t mentally scar my children?”

                Dean swallowed, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He had enough mental scars from a parent, but he didn’t know how to vocalize that to Mary. If it was even worth telling her. She’d been back from the dead for almost a year now, and they hadn’t once talked about John. Whatever mental construct Mary still had of John, Dean didn’t want to ruin it.

                So he kept silent. The awkwardness returned.

                “Dean,” Mary said, her tone back to being serious. “I swear, I didn’t know about Castiel.”

                Good to know it was Mom that Sam got this annoying habit from; initiating uncomfortable conversations in the car, a place Dean couldn’t leave.

                “I--,” Mary paused and swallowed. “I knew. . . they had monsters. But I didn’t know they had Castiel. I didn’t know they were even interested in him. You have to believe me.”

                Dean glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He studied her pale face, the pleading shimmer in her eyes.

                He believed her. Decades of hunting, of interviewing witnesses, trying to find a monster in a crowd, made him pretty good at detecting lies. He could practically smell them. And all of his instincts told him Mary wasn’t lying.

                “I believe you,” he said. Mary visibly relaxed and a small smile graced her face.

                He couldn’t forgive her though. She may have not known about Cas, but she did know the Brits were capturing and experimenting on supernatural creatures. And she hadn’t told them. If they had known, maybe they could have done something to keep Cas safe. . .

                There was no use in dwelling in the past, on the could-haves, and should-have-dones. What’s done was done, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it. The only thing they could do was to fix it.

                As the Impala’s engine whirred across the black asphalt, Dean prepared himself for the long drive ahead.

-0-0-0-

                Ten minutes after Dean and Mom had left, Sam sat next to Cas in the library.

                “How about we go outside?” Sam suggested. Cas looked more depressed than usual, and Sam figured some sunshine and fresh air would do him some good. He knew how much Cas liked being outside.

                He was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles from Cas. It wasn’t much; just a small twitch at the corners of his lips, but Sam knew Cas well enough to know it was a true smile.

                “Yes,” he said, nodding, and Sam’s heart ached just a bit at the excitement in Cas’s voice—it wasn’t like Sam was going out of his way, or taking him to Disney World or something. He just planned to take Cas down the walking trail a bit.

                First, though. “I’ll get you some more appropriate clothes.”

                 “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

                Cas was still just in Sam’s long trench coat and the sweat pants from yesterday—how he managed to sleep in it, Sam didn’t know.

                “Trust me,” Sam said. “These are not exercise clothes. Dean should have something that’ll fit.” Sam didn’t give Cas any time to argue—he quickly went into Dean’s room and pilfered his brother’s dresser, which was surprisingly neat and orderly. Huh.

                Sam picked a pair of jeans, boxers and an old t-shirt, and when he left Dean’s room, he saw Cas slowly making his way down the hallway once more, leaning heavily against the wall.

                Sam sighed. “Really, man?” but left it at that, and grabbed gently onto Cas’s shoulder. He went ahead and lead Cas into Dean’s room and guided him to the edge of the bed.

                “Uh,” Sam said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you need help?”

                “I can manage,” Cas said. He took the clothes from Sam and proceeded to strip his pants.

                “Okay,” Sam said, spinning around, and covering his eyes for good measure. “Uh, I’m right here if you need any help.”

                “You’re embarrassed,” Cas said, with his usual questioning observance.

                “Just trying to give some privacy, that’s all,” Sam said. He could the shuffling of fabric as Cas manipulated the clothing into place.

                Cas didn’t say anything else, and Sam was somewhat thankful. Cas was his friend, his brother, and Sam would do anything to help him, spare him some pain; and Sam had already seen him naked, but, it still wasn’t _right_. Regardless if Castiel understood the social structures or not, Sam wanted to be able to grant his friend some level of human decency and respect.

                After about a minute, Sam found his voice again. “You got it all?”

                “Yes,” Cas said, with his usual level of impatience that was actually somewhat relieving to hear. Cas exasperated, pissed off, what have you, was always better than if he were depressed. Sam would be more worried about the situation in general if Cas wasn’t acting like himself.

                He turned to see that though Cas had managed to get the underwear and pants on no problem, the shirt was backwards. But Sam didn’t have it in him to correct it. It was fine how it was.

                “Good,” Sam said. “Good. Now, let’s just find some shoes and we can go.”

                Ten minutes later, Sam was helping Cas up the stairwell to the front door, slowly and carefully. Cas was in front, hand on the rail, and Sam was right behind him, hand hovering just over Cas’s back. Cas walked slowly, probably unused to the feeling of sneakers compared to his usual dress shoes, but Sam was patient with the pace, not wanting to push.

                “Last step,” Sam said, helping Cas up, and then he was right next to Cas’s side, holding his hand and going out the front door. The door was heavy and creaked loudly as Sam secured it shut. He helped Cas up the small set of stairs outside the front door, and then they began the journey to the walking trail.

                It was a nice day. The sun wasn’t too bright yet, and it wasn’t too hot. There was a cool, gentle breeze that blew through the trees, rubbing the leaves together, mixed in with the gentle sounds of birds. The change in Cas was instantaneous. He shoulders sagged some, and his muscles didn’t seem so tense.

                Sam hooked his arm in Cas’s elbow and walked slowly. The trail was paved, thankfully, a flat, straight path with nothing to trip over. Cas’s movements were slow, but confident.

                This was good for Cas. It was good for him to get out, experience nature as best he could. Better than just ditching him in a room with nothing but the television for company. Cas was already depressed at that point, and binge watching depressing, violent shows alone did not help. Sam wondered if maybe that had led to the domino effect of Cas’s horrid decision to say yes to Lucifer.

                But he swallowed and tried not to think about it. It was over. It was in the past; there wasn’t anything they could do to change the past, but he could ensure he didn’t make the same mistakes now, in the present, and in the future. Especially since Cas was running on human for the foreseeable future. Sam wasn’t quite sure how strongly Cas felt emotions as an angel—if it was the same or stronger than a human, but Sam didn’t want to take any chances. He would keep Cas away from overindulging in junk food, and alcohol, and medications, anything that would set off a relapse of a bad depressive episode. For as well-intentioned as Dean was, he was an idiot.

                Keeping Cas happy could be as simple as this. Just walking outside. Listening to the birds, being surrounded by the smells.

                “Hey,” Sam said, breaking the comfortable silence. “I’ll have to take you out here again when you’re all fixed up.” Because they would find a way. Sam believed that. They would heal Cas, fix his painful scars and get him his sight back—like Dean, Sam refused to accept any other option. “I think all the bird eggs are gonna start hatching soon. And the mammals are going to start having their babies. If you come out early enough, you can catch the racoons.”

                “I’d like that,” Cas said.

                Sam didn’t get moments like this with Cas often, just the two of them, and he enjoyed it. He wished they could do this more often.

                He was having a nice, peaceful time with Cas, and for a few moments, his life didn’t totally suck, so of course it had to end.

                It was Cas who noticed. He squeezed Sam’s hand.

                “Someone is following us,” Cas whispered.

                They stopped walking.

                Sam looked behind him. He didn’t see anyone. He scanned, listened closely, but couldn’t pick out anything.

                “I don’t,” he began, and then he was struck in the side by a strong, fast force. Sam was knocked to the ground, landing hard on his back.

                “Cas!” Sam cried at once, searching for the enemy. He saw a woman with long blonde hair pinned in a messy bun, in a dark suit—angel. She had knocked Cas to the ground and was standing over him.

                Shit, shit, shit.

                Sam reached for the gun he kept strapped to his calf—it was all he had and it wouldn’t kill an angel—god, he was so _stupid_.

                “Castiel,” the angel said. She stared down at Cas inquisitively. “What’s happened to you?”

                Sam pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the angel in her arm, tearing through her coat sleeve. She looked at the damage with a pinched brow.

                “Get away from us,” Sam said.

                The angel scowled at Sam. She flicked her wrist and Sam was thrown backwards, skidding in the dirt until he slammed into a tree trunk at high speed. On the impact, Sam bit his tongue, and blood began to slowly pool into his mouth.

                “This does not concern you, Sam Winchester,” the angel said. Sam was surprised to hear she had a bit of an accent—it _almost_ sounded British, but there was something just the tiniest bit off about it that Sam couldn’t recognize.

                “Isabel?” Cas said. “Isabel, is that you?”

                “Silence!” the angel screamed. Cas grunted—from what Sam could see, it looked like there was a force keeping Cas’s jaw locked shut.

                Sam was dizzy. The world was turning sideways. He staggered to his feet, stumbling slightly, and he raised his gun again, taking off another shot.

                The angel raised her hand, and the bullet stopped midair.

                “Boy King,” she said.

                “Leave us alone,” Sam said. Cas was still on the ground, and now Sam was feet away, and they had nothing to defend themselves. “We don’t want any trouble.”

                The angel—Isabel, Cas had called her—straightened her back. “Your actions seem to prove the contrary,” she said. She reached down and grabbed Cas roughly by the shoulder.

                “No!” Sam said, gun shaking in his hand. He couldn’t dare risk firing off another shot—not with Cas so close to her; if Cas was Angeled Up himself, maybe Sam could do it, knowing that ultimately it wouldn’t do any damage. But not with Cas as injured as he was.

                Cas for his part was fighting. He struggled, twisting his arm, kicking his legs, being generally uncooperative. But Isabel was still and as sturdy as stone.

                “What do you want?” Sam said. He hoped against experience that she could be reasoned with.

                “What I want,” Isabel snapped, tightening her grip on Cas so that it was painful, “is what every angel, every true angel, in Heaven wants. Order restored. Traitors punished. Though it looks like someone already beat me to it.” She snarled at Cas. Cas’s struggles were useless—instead of continuing he spit in her face.

                Isabel’s eyes glowed that bright, iridescent blue.

                “Oh, I can’t wait to get my hands on you good,” she said.

                “No!” Sam cried—he could see what was happening, but he couldn’t stop it. Isabel muttered something in Enochian, words Sam was unfamiliar with. She snapped her fingers and a puff of thick, gray smog covered the area. Sam coughed roughly. The smog burned at his lungs and made his eyes water, but he barreled forward.

                “Cas!” he screamed, beating his arm against the gray cloud to get it to waft away—it all cleared away after just a few seconds.

                Cas and Isabel were nowhere to be seen.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are sucking away my soul, so have this quick little update while I bang my head against a desk and re-convince myself not to drop out.

CH 7

                Sam raced back into the bunker, taking the stairs two at a time, and he panicked. He dug his fingernails into his scalp and he screamed, the sounds echoing throughout the empty hallways of the bunker.

                What did he do? What was he supposed to do?

                Sam pulled out the ruined remains of his cell phone from his pocket. It had shattered when Isabel threw him into the tree, the screen a mosaic of hundreds of cracks, tiny broken pieces. Sam threw the carcass onto the table and kicked the table legs, once, twice, three times. His tongue was painfully swollen in his mouth.

                Dean was going to eviscerate him.

                Not that Sam would blame him. He probably deserved worse. Cas was his best friend. His best friend, who was currently blind and helpless, running on more human than angel, who they had just rescued from captivity and torture, and now he was taken _again_.

                And it was all Sam’s fault.

                He just had to take Cas out of the bunker—had to take Cas, hurt and vulnerable as he was, and make him leave the safest place in North America. And he left the bunker without taking a suitable weapon.

                He was so stupid.

                Sam forced himself to take a deep breath. He exhaled slowly. He needed to calm down. He had to calm down and come up with a plan. Every minute he spent panicking was a minute he wasn’t spending on finding Cas. He found Cas once, he could do it again.

                Except, last time, he had something to go on. A phone call and Cas’s last location.

                Cas had been taken by an _angel_. And while Sam thought all the angels had lost their wings, that wasn’t the important part. He couldn’t worry about that, not right now. Cas could be anywhere on Earth.

                At least, Sam thought hopelessly, if Isabel had wanted to kill Cas, she would have done it then and there. Angels didn’t bother with theatrics. The fact that she had gone through the trouble of tracking down and taking Cas meant, wherever he was, he was alive.

                Sam looked back at his busted up cell phone. Did he call Dean? Dean. He was going to be so mad. He would never trust Sam with Cas again. Dean had only been gone an hour, and Sam had already gone and mucked everything up.

                Sam pounded his fist against the table. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

                He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was selfish, and cowardice, he knew, but he wasn’t going to call Dean. Not yet. Dean and Mary needed to hunt down Ketch and make him pay. That was a mission with an expiration date—they weren’t sure how long Ketch would stay at the Nebraska location, and they couldn’t risk him moving. Sam tried to convince himself he was doing a good thing, as he walked into the kitchen and searched through the junk drawer for a spare phone.

                He found one, an old flip phone with a crack in the hinge, but it would do. He plugged it in and waited impatiently for the battery to be charged enough to turn on.

                Sam swallowed, and pressed the phone against his forehead. He could not believe he was doing this. Not only was he a coward, he was also a hypocrite.

                Sam inhaled. He was doing this for Cas.

                _For Cas._

Sam dialed the number. “Hi,” he said when the other line picked up.

                “Oh,” Crowley’s voice came on, jumbled and impatient, “you have got to be kidding me.”

-0-0-

                Castiel hit the ground hard. His bones jarred, and he bit into his lip to keep from making a noise. He felt around with his hands. The ground was cold, but smooth. Solid. He swallowed, fighting back images of being trapped in the Men of Letters’ dungeon. Trapped in a concrete box. He was back there again, wasn’t he?

                “Sam,” he said, swallowing. He listened for the echoes of his voice. He could envision the walls, and noted with minute relief that at least this room was bigger than the one in the Men of Letters’ dungeon. And at least he wasn’t physically restrained. He crawled slowly, feeling around the ground with his hands. The concrete was rough and scratchy against his palms. “Sam? Are you here?”

                “He’s not,” Isabel said.

                Castiel froze. She was behind him. He tilted his head slightly towards her. “What did you do to him?” Castiel asked flatly.

                “Nothing,” Isabel said. Her footsteps shifted. Castiel followed her movements through sound, and the vibrations through the floor. They were gentle against the concrete, the noises as soft as feathers. She was right beside him. “He is of no interest to me.”

                Castiel relaxed marginally. At least Sam was okay. As much as his own panic threatened to suffocate him, he could bear it as long as Sam was safe.

                “And I am?” Castiel forced as much confidence and indifference into his voice as he could muster. He was a warrior. He would always be a warrior. First rule of being a warrior was to never let your opponent sense your fear. So Castiel swallowed it down and covered it up.

                Isabel snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “You’re only here to answer to your crimes.”  
                Castiel swallowed. Isabel continued to circle around him. He could hear every movement of her muscles, the shift of clothing against her vessel’s skin.

                “Isabel,” Castiel said. “You don’t want to do this.”  
                “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t _want_ to do this. But sometimes we have to things we don’t want to do. Not that you would know anything about that, would you Castiel?”

                Castiel remained dutifully silent.

                She stopped circling. She stood still in front of Castiel. She didn’t breathe, and it made Castiel self-conscious that he had to.

                “Though, I must admit,” Isabel said. “It wouldn’t seem to be very fulfilling to perform this in your current state. Hurting something that can’t fight back? It’s a matter of pride. _That_ you would understand, I imagine.”

                Castiel recalled what Crowley said. Crowley said his wounds could be healed by angels, but Castiel didn’t want Isabel heal him. Not now. He didn’t have his angel blade—it was presumably still in Mr. Ketch’s possession; and his grace was so weak, he wasn’t sure his ‘mojo’ would hold up against Isabel, who had always been a fierce fighter. If remaining in this condition meant Isabel would spare him. . .

                Castiel may be proud, but he wasn’t stupid.

                Isabel began to move again—Castiel heard the shifting of her clothes, but not her footsteps. Suddenly, her hand was on his head and he flinched away.

“Who did this to you?” Isabel asked.

“Don’t pretend you care,” Castiel said.

Isabel huffed impatiently. “Why do you assume I’m pretending?”

“My apologies,” Castiel said drily. “The fact that you attacked Sam and I, and captured me, led me to assume that your intentions were less than pleasant.”  
                Isabel laughed. She actually laughed. Castiel couldn’t see her face, but her laugh ran uncomfortably down his spine. It was bubbly and high-pitched and genuine.

“You always were so funny,” she said, patting Castiel’s head. “Before all. . . _this_ ,” Isabel said, a slight sigh in her voice. Castiel imagined what “this” was, and his stomach curdled. “This” was ten years’ worth of his mistakes and sins, of his Fall from Heaven, of him turning against Heaven and Heaven turning against him. “This” was an eternity that could never be encompassed in one word. “I looked up to you,” she finished. “We all did.”  
                Castiel was reminded of Ishim saying something similar.

“You were an inspiration,” Isabel implored. “A master tactician, an expert in sigils, a true Warrior of God. You never backed down from a fight, never refused an order. You were everything an angel was supposed to be.”

Castiel trembled. He remembered everything she said. He remembered when he was that angel. There was some disassociation with the memory of what he used to be. Like that part of his life had only been a dream; like it wasn’t really him. It wasn’t him. Not anymore. Never again.

“And now?” Castiel said.

“Now,” Isabel said, the anger returning to her voice, but there was something else hidden underneath. Sadness? “Now. . . you’re a warning. To other angels. Your name will go down besides Lucifer’s in the stories of betrayals. Angels will know what becomes of traitors.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Castiel said.

A second later, his head was ringing. His cheek stung, and blood began to pool into his mouth. It took him a moment to realize Isabel had struck him. He spat a thick glob of blood.

“Shut up,” Isabel hissed. “Do you even know how many angels have been slayed at your hand?”

Castiel swallowed. He didn’t. He knew it was numerous, and his heart grieved for every brother and sister he had slain. But he hadn’t wanted to kill them. Every angel he had slaughtered had been for self-defense, or to protect the Winchesters.

“That’s what I thought,” Isabel said. “We had order, once. Heaven was home. But ever since you betrayed us by siding with the Winchesters, it has been chaos. You know well enough.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Castiel repeated. He could feel a bruise forming on his cheek.

Isabel huffed. “This,” she said, pressing her fingers against Castiel’s eyelids. Castiel flinched away from the touch and clenched his teeth to hold back a cry of pain. It hurt. The skin was still sensitive and ached. Isabel’s touch was like more fire. “This is fitting,” she said. “You’re finally paying for your hubris. Justice is finally being delivered.”

Castiel remained silent.

“My orders were to take you back to Heaven,” Isabel said. “You are to stand court and be properly punished.”

Isabel paused. Castiel heard a minute _ting_. It was very familiar to him: it was the sound of an angel blade leaving the ether.

“But, I can’t take you there. Not yet. Not until I get my justice.”

The next thing Castiel was aware of was Isabel’s angel blade piercing his abdomen.

 


	8. Chapter 8

CH 8

 

Crowley frowned and looked unimpressed at his wristwatch, and Sam felt bad that he was distracted enough for a moment to wonder when Crowley got a Rolex.

“I must say, Moose,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows, “I think this is one for the record books. Lost him in just under an hour, well done. Pet owners of the year.”

“Can it, Crowley,” Sam said. “Cas is in danger, okay? Cut the crap and see if you can find him.”

Crowley sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you think we have here, Sam, but I’m beginning to feel taken advantage of. How come you never call me just to hang out? Have a beer, throw some darts---oh, what is it the kids say these days? Netflix and chill?”

Sam couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran down his spine. “First, ew,” he said, swallowing bile. “Second, I don’t like you.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“If you don’t help us, I will kill you.”

“Bit hard since Squirrel’s probably going to kill you first. I mean, you did have just one job, and you mucked that up mighty fine, I’d say.”

Sam inhaled angrily, a low growl threatening to run up his throat. His face flushed with rage. The worst part of it was, Crowley was right. Dean trusted him, trusted him to protect Cas, and Sam ruined it. Dean would never trust Sam with Cas’s, or anyone else’s, safety ever again. Sam didn’t even know how he was going to be able to look Dean in the eyes again after this. Sam didn’t want to see the angry disappointment that would greet him.

But for right now, what Dean didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or Sam, for that matter.

“You think Dean’s gonna take your word over mine?” Sam spat, pulling out the only leverage he could think of. The best weapon at his disposal was his big brother, pissed off. “What if I tell Dean you’re the one that took Cas? He wouldn’t sleep till he hunted you down and carved out your guts.”

Crowley’s face paled just slightly. The cockiness slipped off his smarmy grin just a bit. It was an opening, and Sam took full advantage of it. Even Crowley wasn’t stupid enough to want to square off with an enraged, determined Dean Winchester.

“You won’t be able to smooth talk your way out of that,” Sam continued. “Dean’ll be so pissed, he probably won’t even hear a word you say.”

Crowley’s lips pulled upward, making his teeth just barely visible, like a snarling dog. “You’ve got a lot of confidence that your dimwitted, Neanderthal of a brother will take your word as law, without due process. Need I remind you of the time Dean and I spent together, bonding? We were besties, if but for a brief moment. I’ve still got the pictures to prove it, too.”

Sam’s hand clenched into a tight fist. He inhaled a shaky breath, and thought a montage of things that pissed him off. Dean and Crowley’s ‘Summer of Love’ certainly was near the top of that list, and it still made Sam nauseated to think about. He thought of others. Innocent people dying for no reason, how Dad treated him and Dean growing up, how Heaven fucked up his life before he was even conceived, how he would never, ever, be able to escape hunting and have the apple pie life--

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked, his smarmy, irritating confidence faltering just the slightest.

“Dean!” Sam said, letting the rage pool into his blood, making it run hot. He let panic coat his words, and pushed every iota of pathos he had into each one. “Dean, Crowley has Cas! He attacked us in the woods, and then disappeared with Cas! They’ve been gone for hours already!” Sam put every ounce of emotion into the statements, letting anger and fear seep into every word, putting the force of armies behind them. “I couldn’t stop them! Crowley knocked me out!”

He looked at Crowley, whose smirk was slowly falling from overconfident to a hideous scowl.

“I’m his brother,” Sam said quietly. “I’ve been the only constant in his entire life. You’re a rotted soul from Hell. And a coward who sold his soul for a bigger package. Who do you think Dean is going to believe?”

Crowley huffed. “You’d have to find me to kill me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. He took a step forward. “Have you met my brother? There’s not a damn thing that’ll stand between him and you. You can hide in Hell, surrounded by your cowardly ‘subjects’, but he’ll find a way to dive head first into your kingdom without a life jacket if he thinks he’s gonna save Cas.”

Crowley bit his lip. Sam could practically see the steam coming out his ears.

“I bet having Dean Winchester invade Hell wouldn’t be good for your rule,” Sam said. “If even Hell’s not safe for demons, I guess nowhere is.”

Crowley sighed. He clenched his teeth tightly.

_Yahtzee_ , Sam thought.

“You know,” Crowley said, “I don’t believe in handing over injured angels back to their irresponsible owners. It’s an ethical thing, you see; you’re just going to lose him again. There are these things called leashes, you know.”

“What can you tell me?” Sam asked.

“That depends,” Crowley said, taking a step forward. “What can you tell me? Tell me everything.”

There wasn’t much to tell, but Sam gave all he knew. He described the angel that took Cas, her name, and how she had just disappeared.

“I thought the angels couldn’t fly anymore,” Sam said, perplexed.

“They can’t,” Crowley said. “Sounds like Castiel’s girlfriend used a teleportation spell. They’re quite different, you know. I could go into the metaphysics—”

“I don’t care,” Sam snapped. “Where could she have gone?”

“Anywhere on Earth,” Crowley answered. “Still quite a large play map, but at least he’s not on another planet or another domain.”

Sam chewed his lip. “How do we find her?”

“We don’t need to find her,” Crowley said, his smirk returning. Before Sam could respond, Crowley continued, “She’ll tell us exactly where she is. Angels’ egos are too big to keep secrets for too long.”

“So, what? We’re supposed to sit here and twiddle our thumbs while Cas is being tormented?”

“Unless you’ve a tracker chip placed in the choir boy’s neck, yes. By the by, that may be something to consider for the future.”

It took everything Sam had not to shoot Crowley in the face.

Crowley’s smirk returned. “Now, what kind of gin do you boys have in here?”

\--

          Dean pulled the Impala off the side of the road, winching as the tires churned over the rocky terrain. “Jeez,” he said, barely pushing on the gas. Mud splashed up, and as Dean drove further away from the road, the grass grew taller and more unkempt. “I’m sorry, Baby,” he said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“She can handle it,” Mary said calmly.

Once Dean was sure they were far enough out, he put the car in park and got out. He immediately sunk into the soft mud, up past his ankle. Dean shuddered and grimaced as the mud soaked through his jeans and got onto his skin. It was cold.

“These were my favorite pair,” Dean bemoaned.

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Mary said. Mud sloshed as she walked around the car and towards the main road. “We got everything we need?”

Dean opened the trunk and began loading magazines into his guns. The trademark, satisfactory click made Dean grin.

Mary, though, wasn’t smiling. “Dean, what’s the plan here?”

Dean put the gun in his holster. He turned to Mary with a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not planning on killing them, are you?”

“I’m only _planning_ on killing Ketch,” Dean said, loading up a second gun to go in his ankle strap. “If one of those other bastards wants to get in my way, though,” Dean mimed a gun with his fingers and mouthed “phew”.

Mary’s face paled.

“What?” Dean said, shoving a gun towards Mary and slamming the trunk closed. “You disagree?”

Mary visibly swallowed. “I agree they should be punished for what they did to Castiel,” she said softly. “But killing them—“

“Is merciful, compared to what I could do to them.”

“We don’t kill _people_ , Dean!” Mary hissed.

Dean clenched his fist. If only it were that simple again. Once, Dean would have been right with Mary; would not have dared hesitate to disagree with her. Once, people were people, and monsters were monsters, and there was no two ways about it. There was a line, thick and black down the middle that separated the two.

But things weren’t that simple anymore.

“Dean,” Mary said, breathless. He could hear the disapproval in her voice, and it grated on his skin. Suddenly, he was twelve years old again, and was hearing the same disapproval, just in another voice.

_Not quick enough, Dean. Not quiet enough, Dean. I told you not to let your brother out of your sight!_

Dean’s fingernails bit into the meat of his palms.

“You’ve killed people,” Mary said.

Rowena’s voice echoed in his head. _You’re a killer, Dean Winchester._

Dean faced her. He could be mad at the truth, but it was the truth. “Yeah, I have,” Dean said. “We all have.” All the people he killed when he wore the Mark of Cain flashed in his mind, one by one—the only one he could ever feel remorse over was the Styne kid, the poor bastard that got stuck with an insane family legacy he didn’t want. Dean still lost sleep over that sometimes. But the other Styne members? Those men that were going to attack Claire?

Dean didn’t lose a wink over them. Sometimes he wished he could go back in time and make it hurt worse.

And then of course there were all the souls in Hell.

“Sometimes the worst monsters out here are people,” Dean said. “I’ve met a few good ‘monsters’ working this life—there are some good ones. Good vampires, good werewolves, good witches, that don’t hurt nobody, but there are people out there that will hurt anyone given the chance. My job isn’t to kill monsters—it’s to protect people.”

“You’ve let vampires and werewolves go?” Mary asked. The disbelief in her voice was tangible.

Dean licked his lips.

“It’s also my job to protect my family,” he said. “From anything that threatens them.”

These British assholes had hurt Sam and Cas. Dean shouldn’t have let it get that far. He should have killed them after what they did to Sam. It still stung, knowing Mary had worked with these guys after what they did to Sam—they broke his ribs, burned his feet, and that was just what Dean had been able to see. Who knows what else they could have done to Sam? Sam sure as hell didn’t talk about it, and Dean knew better than to ask. But Mary had seen, and she still chose to work with them. And the Brits had set them all up, sending them on that suicide mission to Ramiel’s hut, and Cas had almost died then, too, and Mary still worked with them.

He couldn’t understand how his mom could defend them still, after everything.

“Ketch isn’t a threat,” Mary said, and there was something in her voice that made it all click.

He looked at her, studied her like a book, took in everything about her. It all clicked into place.

“You’re sleeping with him,” he said, and suddenly, everything was worse. His stomach did a somersault, and he thought he was going to be sick on his shoes. “Mom, are you crazy?” He yelled, despite himself, all thoughts of secrecy forgotten, lost in his rage. “What the hell?  
          Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic,” she said. “It’s just sex. It means nothing.”

All Dean could see was Sam, Sam, beaten, bloody, tied to that chair; and Mary was sleeping with the people responsible.

Dean’s rage grew exponentially. He turned away from Mary and headed towards the road. The hideout was just up the road about a half mile. Dean was going to burst in, guns blazing, find Ketch, and gun him down.

“Dean,” Mary said impatiently. “Dean, we need a plan.”

“I already told you my plan,” Dean said, fingers itching to shoot Ketch.

“You’re being childish.”

Dean paused, waited with baited breath for a single second, and then spun hot on his heels and faced Mary. He had already told her once; maybe a second time would get the message in. “I was _never_ a child,” he growled. “Got it? The night you died, I had to grow up. Make grown up decisions. This is my grown up decision. Ketch hurt Cas, my innocent best friend, and if I don’t do something about him now, he _is_ going to hurt someone else innocent. He doesn’t get a free pass just ‘cause he’s human. No one does. You may be blind to see it, but he’s a snake in the grass, waiting to strike, and I got to take him out before he does.”

With that, Dean turned back around and headed towards the road.

“I’m not saying we let him go unpunished,” Mary said testily, and god, Dean finally understood where Sam got it from, “but _killing_ him?”

“It’s him or us,” Dean said. “This conversation is over.”

Mary’s jaw audibly shut. She didn’t say anything else—but Dean knew, it was actually, far from over.

\--

          Dean wondered how this could even be classified as a hideout. It was probably the least inconspicuous thing he had ever seen. It was a giant—giant—hazmat tent over what looked like an abandoned Costco type warehouse building. From the distance, Dean could see a guard gate, and a watch tower built in a treehouse.

          “I thought these guys were high tech,” Dean said.

          Mary elbowed him angrily in the sides.     

          “Ouch,” Dean said.

          “Hush,” she snapped.

          Dean rolled his eyes, and fought to keep his temper under control. This was not how he thought this hunt with his mom would go.

          He hoped at least Sam and Cas were having fun together, with whatever they were doing.

\---

          Castiel’s grace was still far away, like it was at the bottom of a pool. He knew it was there, but he couldn’t reach it, couldn’t draw its full power. He swallowed thickly. It hurt, but he forced it down. His throat was incredibly dry, like sandpaper, and his head was spinning.

          Isabel was in a corner somewhere in the room. It was getting more difficult to concentrate and keep track of her movements; Castiel tried to rely on his hearing to track her, but the pounding in his head was loud and disruptive.

          Castiel pressed against the wound on his abdomen. It wasn’t deep, but it was long, and still bleeding, hot blood bubbling under his fingertips. It was horrendous—Castiel couldn’t help but think of Ramiel’s hut; the pain was very similar, and in almost the exact same place.

          Isabel sighed. “I thought this would be more fun,” she said, boredom heavy in her voice.

          Castiel gritted his teeth. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. He braced his forehead against the concrete. It was scratchy, but cool, and Castiel would relish any comfort he could find.

          Isabel began walking again. Her footsteps were heavy, movements were stiff. She was uncomfortable in her vessel.

          “I don’t get it,” she said.

          Castiel growled. Why did these people like the sound of their own voices so much? “Get what?” he humored her.

          “You,” she said. “Why you did what you did. I don’t get it. You were an angel, Castiel. We looked up to you. Why would you throw it all away? For those two dirty apes?”

          Oh, not this again. “I didn’t throw anything away,” Castiel said. “I followed my duty.”

          Isabel scoffed.

          “It’s true,” Castiel said. “Our duty was—is—to protect humanity. God would not have wanted the Apocalypse.”

          “Like you would know what God wanted,” she sneered. “If God didn’t want it, why was it in the script?”

          “Was it God’s script, or Michael’s?”

          Isabel went silent.

          Castiel leaned closer against the ground. “If you’re going to kill me, do it and be done.” He could hear his heart beat rapidly in his ears. His blood was hot inside his veins, and on his hand.

          “I told you,” she said. “You are to stand trial.”

          “It won’t be a fair trial, I assume.”

          “Heaven’s nothing but fair.”

          “Really?”

          “If you fear an unfair trial, that only means you are guilty.”

          “I imagine you’ll find me guilty regardless.”

          Isabel laughed—a real, genuine laugh. Castiel didn’t understand what was so funny, but he didn’t care enough to ask. Sam was searching for him, of that Castiel was sure, but if he was taken back to Heaven, he would have to relinquish all hope of rescue. Sam and Dean were good, but not even they could break into Heaven. They would be atomized the moment they tried to step through the Gate.

          “You are guilty, though,” she said. “How many angels have you slain?”

          Castiel bit his lip. The number was too high to keep track of.

          “Are you taking me to Heaven, or not?” Castiel despised theatrics.

          “Eventually,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

          Her angel blade clinked. Castiel titled his head, inhaled, and focused on her movements. The blade was in her right hand. She was tapping it against her thigh. If she got close enough, maybe. . . maybe he could wrench it from her grasp. His moves would have to be calculated, precise—he did not have the luxury of making a mistake. Isabel was right; he had slain dozens of angels. What was one more? It wouldn’t lessen his guilt either way.

His wound on his abdomen was starting to coagulate, the blood slowing and thickening. Castiel’s hands were slick with blood. His grace was still far away, but it was beginning to float to the surface—it was almost within his reach, just barely out it—like Castiel could brush it with his fingertips, but not grip it with his fingers. He would just have to wait it out, just another few moments, and then it would be within his grasp. Lucky for him, angels were cocky, and liked to hear themselves speak. All Castiel had to do was keep her distracted, keep her talking.

          “Really?” he said, clenching his teeth. He winced, doing everything to appear in more pain than he actually was. The more pathetic he appeared, the more comfortable Isabel would become, and the easier it would to overpower her.

          “This is the opportunity of a lifetime,” Isabel said. “Humbling you. There are many angels in Heaven that would pay a hefty price to get to see you in a state like this.”

          “I feel so honored,” Castiel said.

          Isabel huffed. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you,” she said.

          Of all the many lessons he had received from Sam and Dean, the most useful was probably sarcasm, Castiel mused.

Castiel rolled his shoulders. His wings still ached, and with the pain in his stomach lessening by the moment, he had nothing to distract him from his wings.

His skin was starting to knit back together. His grace was rising closer and closer to the surface. It was almost there, just barely out of his reach. Isabel was walking around him now, swinging her angel blade. Castiel could hear it slicing through the air. It was almost there—he could almost take her. He just had to distract her for a little longer.

“Doesn’t Heaven have bigger concerns to deal with?” he mumbled to the concrete. Appear weak, appear injured; the more comfortable Isabel became, the more off-guard she would be when Castiel attacked. “Kelly Kline is still missing, and she could go into labor any day now. Isn’t Lucifer’s Nephilim a higher priority?”

Isabel snorted. “We have that under control.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel said.

“Oh, I don’t lie, Castiel. You might, but I do not. Heaven has a plan. Kelly Kline won’t survive the birthing process, but the Nephilim is still part human. It will need time to grow into its power. A newborn, even Lucifer’s spawn, won’t be strong enough to take on the entire Host of Heaven immediately. We will be waiting close by, and if we’re swift enough, the abomination won’t have time to draw its first breath.”

There it was. Castiel’s grace was close enough for him to grasp. He grasped on as tightly as he could, and absorbed all the power. It washed over him like a waterfall—his skin stitched tightly back together, his older wounds vanished like they had never been there, the pain in his wings lessened to something he could ignore---

But he still couldn’t see. The burns around his eyes still were raw and uncomfortable.

Castiel couldn’t worry about that, though; not right now. Isabel drew closer.

“Heaven works best when it works together,” Isabel said, oblivious to Castiel’s healing. Castiel shifted his position slightly—he pushed himself on his hands, bracing most of his weight on his knees.

“Not,” Isabel said, stepping closer to Castiel. Her footsteps were heavy and loud, alerting Castiel to when she was right in front of him, “when renegade angels take matters into their own hands!”

Castiel had his opportunity. Isabel was right in front of him, her blade in her hand.

He lunged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are lovely <3


	9. Chapter 9

                “How are we going to get in?” Dean asked, staring at the guard gate. The man patrolling was diligent, sweeping his gun side to side, marching back and forth across his little stand. Dean stood hidden behind a tree, craning his neck around to see behind him. Dean didn’t know how to get past him, but the man in the car gate looked to be watching some sort of TV show on a tablet. That, Dean could probably sneak by, but British Sniper made him nervous.

                “Follow my lead,” Mary said. She brushed past Dean with confidence, head high. Dean’s anger still simmered underneath his skin. He couldn’t believe his mom was literally sleeping with the enemy. It was a bad enough betrayal when she unveiled she was working with them, but now he all he could envision was his mom and Ketch doing the horizontal tango, and it disgusted him and horrified him on many levels. It was still a bone deep betrayal that made Dean’s head spin.

                He trailed behind Mary cautiously. She walked right up to the center of British Sniper’s shooting range, and Dean’s words caught in his throat.

                Mary whistled and waved. “Hey, Alec,” she said.

                “Hey, Mary!”

                “Me and boy safe to go on through?”

                “You know you’re always welcome here!”

                “Thanks,” Mary said, winking, and she blew a kiss. Dean gagged. Mary motioned for him to come forward.

                “You could’ve told me they would let you in,” Dean grumbled.

                “Yeah, but what’s the fun in that?”

                “So I parked Baby in the mud for nothing.” Fan-fucking-tastic.

                “It wasn’t for nothing,” Mary said. “They can chase us in a car. Hell, they might do something to the car while we’re inside. Lo-Jack it, maybe.  Leaving it where we did is the safest bet.”

                Dean snorted. “What’s your plan, Mom?”

                “Get retribution for Castiel.”

                “Except,” Dean was suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. Nervousness flooded his blood—he wouldn’t be surprised if this entire place was bugged. “Nevermind,” Dean said. He would kill Ketch himself—he wasn’t a kid. He didn’t need his mom’s permission. More, she wasn’t going to be able to stop him once Dean had the bastard in sight. One bullet. A second. That’s all he needed.

                Mary walked towards the guard gate, smiling widely; Dean felt awkward trailing behind her. He knew this was part of an act, but it hurt. Mary didn’t smile like that around him and Sam. She wasn’t easy going with them, like she was with these guys. She was his mom, but Dean felt like a stranger. Mary sweet talked her way past the gate guard too, laughing too loud, and blinking her eyes. God, it was horrible to watch. Dean felt like he was watching a crime being committed right in front of him.

                The guard was eating it up, too. He had a dopey grin on his face, and gave a toothy smile, while _The Big Bang_ theory ran on his tablet.

                “Is Ketch here?” Mary asked, so sweetly it was sickening.

                The poor dope nodded dumbly. “’Course he is,” the guard said. “Think he’s running patrol check with Sean.”

                “Thanks, Jeff,” Mary said. “Jeff”---Dean avoided rolling his eyes---opened the gate. Dean walked by, just barely behind Mary.

                This hideout was similar the one back in Kansas: something out of a sci-fi movie. Steel walls, embedded with computers, beeping noises coming from every direction. Dozens of switches, knobs, and dials as far as the eye could see, and Dean resisted the urge to fiddle one of them. Would probably set a nuke off somewhere, knowing these guys.

                “Don’t touch anything,” Mary said, at the exact moment Dean drew his hand away. “And don’t you dare, Dean—we are going to talk to him. Got it? You know what, give me your gun.” Mary held out her hand. Dean stared at her incredulously. Mary’s eyes widened, and she motioned with her eyes towards her palm. “Dean.”

                “No!” Dean said. “No way! Do you even hear yourself? Talk to him, seriously?”

                “I won’t let you---“ Mary motioned with her head. “We don’t kill people.”

                “Of course we don’t.”

                Dean jumped, drawing his gun. It was an automatic reaction; he had it free from the holster, safety off, in a second.

                Mary spun around, hair twisting wildly behind her.

                “Dean, Mary,” Ketch said.

                “Asshat,” Dean said. He couldn’t shoot—his mom was in the way. Dean’s arm began to shake.

                “I must admit, this is unexpected. Have you come to apologize?”

                “Me?” Dean shouted, unable to contain his rage. His voice echoed in this tuna can they called a hideout. “Apologize?”

                “Yes, for Mick’s hand,” Ketch said calmly. “You did a real bang up job on that one, Dean. We couldn’t use our surgeon, he had to see a specialist.”

                “Boo hoo,” Dean said. “Mom, get out of the way.”

                “Ketch,” Mary said, not moving. “I want out. I warned you what would happen if you hurt one of my boys again.”

                Dean felt like he’d been slapped. He looked at the back of his Mom’s head in confusion. Mary had called Cas one of her boys?

                Ketch frowned in confusion. Dean could see him slowly put the pieces together, see the moment the light bulb turned on. “You’re referring to the angel,” he said. “I didn’t realize it fell under that umbrella.”

                “He does,” Mary said. “And you hurt him bad.”

                Ketch rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s hardly my fault,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was so weak to begin with.”

                “Shut your face,” Dean snapped. “Mom, out of the way, now.”

                “Put that thing away, Dean, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

                “What the hell did you do to Cas to get the jump on him?” Dean asked. Nothing snuck up on Cas; and nothing overpowered him without getting some sort of beating in return. Dean didn’t believe the Brits played a fair fight. From what he’d seen of them so far, it wasn’t a jump of logic to assume they cheated in some fashion. He was aware he’d only seen a minute share of their arsenal—Dean couldn’t imagine what else they had hidden behind these metallic walls, and what sorts of ones could harm angels.

                Ketch looked proud, smiling genially. “Few injections of demon blood. It’s like vitriol to the little buggers. Paralyzes them too, which came in handy for your particular angel. It’s a scrappy one, I’ll give it that.”

                Dean could imagine it—them sticking needles inside Cas; Cas dropping like a brick to the ground, in so much pain he couldn’t even move. Cas burning from the inside.

                And the outside.

                “And blinding him? That part of your plan too, huh? It get you off, hurting someone that can’t even defend themselves?”

                “It was an _accident_ ,” Ketch said impatiently. His lips curled angrily around his teeth, eyes shaking in his sockets. He stared at Dean straight on. Dean’s jaw tightened. He shook his head. “Unbelievable. That’s why you here? Honestly? For the halo.”

                “He has a name,” Dean said. He didn’t think he could bear hearing Cas’s name from this douchebag’s face, but he couldn’t stand hearing Ketch talk about Cas like he was an object. Cas had already told Ketch off for not using his name. Dean didn’t know why it bothered him as much as he did. Not referring to Cas by his name was far from the most awful thing this guy had done to Cas, but he couldn’t shake the way it made him feel.

                “They all have names,” Ketch said. “You can’t let them worm inside your head like that. They’re less than animals.”

                Dean raised his hand, steadying it enough, and he fired. The bullet sailed safely over Mary’s head; but Ketch ducked, and it lodged in the wall. Smoke curled from the barrel. The wall cracked, black soot staining the silver metal.

                “Dean!” Mary screamed. “What the hell!”

                Ketch drew his own gun. He clicked off the safety. “Put it away, Winchester,” Ketch said. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

                “Yeah you do,” Dean said. Mary was still shouting behind him, but Dean couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was kill this son of a bitch, make him a bloodstain on this floor, just like his friends back in their Kansas base.

                Ketch snorted. “Point. But you’re human. I can’t say the same for you, you Neanderthal, but I have a Code to abide by.”

                “Your code make you attack innocent people? Torture them?”

                “Angels are peculiar creatures, indeed, but they are not people. Far from it, actually, their behavior is more like bees than anything humanoid. Very intelligent, bees, however. You’ve let your little pet taint your mind.”

                Mary grabbed onto Dean’s elbow and wrenched hard, attacking the pressure point in his wrist. Dean gasped and dropped the gun—they were fucking lucky it didn’t go off—and then Mary kicked it away.

                “Mom!” Dean cried.

                “I told you,” she hissed, “we were not doing this.”

                “Yes, what were you coming here to do then?” Ketch asked. His gun was still steady in his hand. “You got your angel back, fine, what more do you want?”

                “Payback,” Dean said. “Make sure you never come near any of my family ever again.”

                “Oh, believe me, Dean if only it were that easy. I knew it was useless trying to befriend your sort, but Doctor Hess and Mick were adamant were give it a go. Well,” Ketch clicked his tongue. “We tried. We failed. We’ll take it as the lesson it is. I guess you really can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”  Ketch moved slightly, and something flashed from behind his waist—a quick gleam of silver. Dean immediately knew it Cas’s angel blade. The one Dean had promised he would get back.

                Dean growled. Oh, he was going to make this bastard, and he was going to make him pay good. Dean still had forty years of Hell coursing through his veins—he’d make what Ketch had done to Cas look like horseplay.

                “Fuck off,” Dean said. Mary tugged on his elbow.

                “Ketch,” Mary said, “you’re going to have to go through your plans on your own now.”

                “Fine,” Ketch said. His eyes narrowed and he chortled. “What, you think you’re irreplaceable? Nonsense, darling. Life Lesson Number One: _Everyone_ is expendable. Someone can always do the job better, for less. Sharpshooters are a dime a dozen, these days, pencil pushers—“ Ketch shrugged. “We can just as well without you. It’s better this way, probably. Hunters who associate with the vermin are not true hunters after all.”

                “Can I shoot him now, please?” Dean asked, hand steady and still.

                “We came for the cure for Castiel,” Mary said, ignoring Dean.

                Ketch snorted. “Cure? There is no cure. The halo shouldn’t even be alive, much less be cured of the damage sustained. Consider yourselves lucky I won’t send my men after you and finish the job.”

                Dean pulled the trigger. The shot fired, cracking the air, and he gritted his teeth at the sound. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, relished the sound of Ketch crying out in pain, but when Dean opened his eyes, it was with disappointment to see he’d only got Ketch in the shoulder. Ketch grabbed at his wounded shoulder, cursing in French, as blood reddened his skin.

                “You come near us again,” Dean said, voice deep and hoarse, “it’ll be the last thing you do.”

                Ketch laughed. It sent shivers down Dean’s spine—it was guttural, and listless. He opened his eyes and stared straight at Dean. “You can kill me, Dean,” he said, “but you can’t kill Us. We’re everywhere. All over. Right now, at this very minute, my brothers are on this putrid continent, doing what you couldn’t—killing monsters, of every kind. You can get rid of me, maybe, but there’ll always be someone out there, searching, waiting to strike. You can’t hide from us, Dean.”

                Dean bit into his lip so hard, he began to taste blood. Just one more shot, that was all he needed, one more and he could get rid of this asshole from this planet. He was prepared to shoot to, when the gun was suddenly flung from his hand. It smashed into the far wall, falling apart into different pieces.

                “I told you,” Crowley’s said, “not to start the party without me.”

-0-0-0-

                “Are you really just gonna sit there?” Sam said, glaring at Crowley.

                Crowley was at the library table, feet propped up on the tabletop, a glass of Dean’s favorite whiskey idling in his hand. “What?” he said. “What else am I supposed to do?”

                “You’re supposed to be helping me find Cas!”

                Crowley rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “I told you, Moose, we’ll find the feather duster—angels can’t keep their traps shut, and any moment now, a bell is going to ring over the radios, leading us to our favorite Christmas ornament.”

                Sam dropped the heavy tome he’d been carrying onto the table. It landed with a loud slam, kicking a thick cloud of dust up into the air, but Crowley didn’t even flinch.

                “There’s gotta be something around here to get Cas his sight back,” Sam said. “Help me find it.”

                “I’m not your dog, Samuel,” Crowley snapped. “I’ve done enough favors for you to last twelve lifetimes, and here I am, doing you another one. Yet, all you do is make impossible demands! I told you—there’s nothing that can be done to fix Castiel.”

                “Yeah? Like there was nothing to be done to save Dean from Hell? Nothing to stop the Apocalypse? The Darkness? No. No,” Sam shook his head violently. “I don’t believe that. There is always something to be done, and these books, are the oldest, most rare of their kind, in all of existence. There’s something here, I know it, but I can only read one book at a time, and until that ‘bell’ goes off, you’re going to make yourself useful, or—“

                “Or you’ll sic your rabid brother on me, blah, blah, blah—Sam, you’re a broken record. Honestly, put that college degree to some use, would you? Using the same arguments over and over, making the same, idle threats—no wonder you skipped law school, you’d be an awful lawyer.”

                Sam glared at Crowley, and wished for the first and only time, he still had his psychic powers and could smoke Crowley from the inside out.

                Crowley gave a toothy smile and raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said, drawing the tome towards him, and slinging it open. He purposefully slammed it against the tabletop to draw out a loud noise, and Sam scowled at him. “Careful,” Crowley said in a sing-song voice. “It might stick that way.”

                Fighting against every instinct he had not to shoot Crowley in the face, Sam opened his book, and slowly began to digest the contents of the centuries old tome. He had been excited, ecstatic, when they first found the bunker, and began to sort through the library. But over time, it had lost some of its appeal, as Sam trudged through useless tome after useless tome. Some of the tomes were very interesting, the sort of books Sam wished they had during the Apocalypse; but there was only so many times he could read about the pest control properties of hemlock before even he was bored to tears.

                This book he picked out for himself wasn’t much better. Not even the Men of Letters knew much about angels, apparently, but what little books they did have were so inaccurate, they nearly had Sam falling out of his chair. This particular author was convinced that angels  were a subspecies of the fae, and they came in the night and carried of naughty children. Sam made a mental note to ask Cas’s opinion of that, once they got him back.

                Sam muddled through the extravagant text, much of which was flowery and not useful. As the minutes turned to hours, Sam grew more and more frustrated. He was wasting time. He could go through boring book after boring book _after_ he found Cas. Finding Cas, making sure he was safe, was priority number one, but he couldn’t do it without Crowley’s help. He wouldn’t even know where to start. And Crowley was hindering more than he was helping, as he helped himself again and again to the liquor stash, smacking his lips on Dean’s favorite bottle of whiskey.

                “Got that bell yet, Crowley?” Sam asked impatiently after nearly an hour had gone by, an hour that Cas was being held hostage by a crazy angel, when he was in no state in defend himself.

                “No,” Crowley said.

                “You’re not even reading,” Sam snapped.

                “Pardon me if there’s nothing in these texts I don’t already know. What you’ve got here is a load of pure rubbish. Better off using it as toilet paper, for all the worth you’re getting out of it now.”

                It went like that for another few hours. Sam’s nerves began to fray with each passing minute. It became harder and harder to concentrate on the words in front of him. They blurred together into an illegible smudge, and he couldn’t stop bouncing his knee anxiously. Dean and Mom should have made it to Nebraska by now. Sam wondered if they found the Men of Letter’s Headquarters yet, and if they had, what they had done about it. Sam’s stomach flopped uneasily as he considered that maybe they had already found it, wiped the place clean, and were on their way back now. What if they were just an hour or two away from home? What if Dean came home before Crowley was able to locate Cas? Sam was worried to death about Cas, but he also didn’t want to disappoint Dean, not again. Dean had trusted him, and Sam blew it. Sam had thought Dean was being a paranoid maniac by trying to keep Cas indoors, but Dean was right. It’s not paranoia if someone’s really out to get you, and all of this mess would have been avoided if Sam had just kept Cas inside.

                Sam also, selfishly, wasn’t ready to eat that slice of humble pie for calling _Crowley_ for help. After he bitched at Dean about it, he didn’t have any way to justify his decision to call Crowley. He was hypocrite.

                Out of nowhere, Crowley slammed his book shut and stood to his full height. Sam’s heart leapt into his throat.

                “Did you find Cas?”

                “No,” Crowley said, dusting off his hands. “But I’ve got something much more interesting.”

                Sam stared at Crowley darkly.

                “It seems your brother has infiltrated the Men of Letter’s Headquarters.”

                “And you know that how?”

                Crowley winked. “Squirrel’s thoughts are very loud. And angry.”

                Sam huffed. “You’re hearing his thoughts? From all the way over here?”

                “Well, that may be an exaggeration. Then Men of Letter’s magic is very powerful, but it lacks variety. What can get you into one, gets you into them all. I put a, uh, tracker, let’s call it, on your brother, to go off once he breached that barrier.”

                “You did WHAT!?”

                “Relax,” Crowley said. “It’s harmless. It doesn’t track his location, just his location _now_ , that he’s passed the magic to activate it. I know exactly where they are.”

                “And, what? You think you’re gonna be able to just pop right in, no problem?”

                “That’s the problem with the British, Samuel. They don’t plan contingencies! They plan on keeping things out, but never think to plan of what happens when something gets in.”

                Crowley had that look in his eyes that Sam knew from experience meant he was about to poof out. “Wait!” Sam cried. “What about Cas?”

                “What about him? We’ve got nothing on him, we do have something on those British bastards, I don’t give a damn about Castiel, I do want revenge on the limey scoundrels for killing my hounds and demons. See where this is going?”

                “No!” Sam snapped. “No, you’re going to help me find Cas! You have to help me find Cas, we had a deal!”

                “But did we seal it with a kiss?” Crowley frowning. “No, we did not. Ergo, no deal. I am a demon of opportunity, Sam. Way I see it, I get to pull two annoying thorns out of my arse—Castiel, and those Brits—in one go. Ta, ta.”

                Before Sam could say anything else, Crowley was gone. Sam took the glass Crowley had been drinking from, and threw it against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on tumblr! i'm darkheartinthesky over there as well! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, not that happy with this chapter, but here you guys go. We're getting into the home stretch of this little fic.

CH 10

                “What are you doing here?” Dean yelled. Mary drew her gun, clicked off the safety, but Crowley flicked his wrist and it was flung of her grip just like Dean’s had been.

                “I told you not to go after these bastards without me,” Crowley said. “I wanted a piece of the action.”

                “How did you get in here?” Ketch snarled. Blood dripped from his gunshot wound onto the floor in small drops.

                Crowley cocked his head. “A guard gate does little good without a guard.”

                “You killed my men?”

                “Hello, demon,” Crowley said. “You’ve killed scores of my men, it’s only time I repay the favor.”

                Ketch spat out a wad of blood, and began to recite the exorcism ritual. Crowley sighed and looked at his nails. Dean watched with wide eyes as Ketch continued the ritual, and nothing happened. Ketch grew visibly more frustrated the longer he went and nothing happened. Crowley sighed boredly.

                “Why isn’t anything happening?” Ketch said.

                “King of Hell. Dead vessel,” Crowley explained. “Can’t kick me out of my own tailored meatsuit, darling. I, however. . .” Crowley raised his hand. Ketch pitched forward. A burst of blood spewed out of his mouth. His face turned scarlet, and a horrible wheezing sound pinched from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, and more blood came out of his mouth like a faucet.

                Mary screamed. She rushed towards Ketch, but Dean caught her by the elbow and pulled her back.

                “Dean, stop him!”

                Dean remained silent. He watched as Ketch fought for breath and lost; and he admitted with some modicum of shame that he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt or worry as he witnessed the life literally dribbling out of Ketch’s mouth. Mary kept trying to pull herself out of Ketch’s grip, but Dean kept her firmly in place. She pulled hard, wrestled like a fish out of water, but Dean’s grip never wavered. He was taller, and stronger than his mother, and though his mom was a skilled hunter, even she couldn’t escape basic biology. The biggest thing always won.

                It didn’t last much longer. Ketch collapsed on the ground, and the awful choking noise silenced. Dean wished it had been longer, but he was glad the threat to his family was gone all the same.

                Dean’s grip on Mary slackened enough that she was able to pull free, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Ketch’s face was swollen, and flushed, blood stained his chin and neck, and his tongue barely poked out of his mouth.

                “Well,” Crowley said, clicking his tongue. “That’s that, I suppose.”

                Mary reached down and pulled out the gun Dean had secured to his ankle strap. She fired a shot before Dean even realized what had happened. The bullet lodged harmlessly into Crowley’s chest. He didn’t flinch, but instead stared at the gaping wound in disbelief.

                “Ow,” he said emotionlessly. “You hurt my feelings.”

                “You son a bitch!” she cried.

                “Mrs. Winchester, you don’t know how right you are.”

                “Dean, do something!” Mary’s frustration was palpable.

                “Get out of here,” Dean snapped. “Go, before someone else shows up.”

                “Dean!”

                “You don’t need to tell me twice,” Crowley said. He got that look on his face that he was ready to zap away, when he suddenly paused, and his smirk twisted into something sinister. “Oh, before I go, one more thing, Dean. Sam lost the choir boy. Ta-ta.”

                “Wait, what?”

                But Crowley was gone before Dean could say anything else, the spot he had just occupied vacated completely, no sign of him having been there at all. Ketch’s body lay there on the floor, rigor mortis already beginning to become visible as his muscles stiffened.

                Mary was still in shock, but Dean’s mind was racing a mile a minute, trying to process what Crowley had just said. He hadn’t heard that right, surely? He had to have misheard. Yeah, that had to be it, because there was no way Crowley said that Sam lost Cas, because there was no way that happened.

                Dean’s stomach churned. He walked up to Ketch’s corpse and bent down just enough to take the angel blade from where Ketch had it secured at the waist. Dean weighted it in his hands, then tucked it into his belt loop. He spat on the body.

                “We should go,” he said. He got the guns that had been flung from his grip, and he and Mary scurried out the building. Both the lookout and gate guards were dead, their faces as flushed and swollen as Ketch’s had been. Dean took Mary by the elbow and hurried along, suddenly regretting the decision to park Baby so far away. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushed hotly in his veins, as he replayed what Crowley said over and over again, to try and make sense of what it could have been Crowley actually said. Because Crowley said something, all right, but he did not, Dean resolutely believed, he did not say that Sam lost Cas.

                Sam would not have let anything happen to Cas.

                Dean’s pace quickened. When they finally got into Baby, Mary was still quiet. Dean pulled out his cell phone and called Sam. He waited with baited breath, but then his heart dropped into his stomach when he got the shrill dial tone, the ascending pitch of beeps, and a female voice that chimed _We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up, and try again._

                Dean’s throat grew dry. “We gotta get back to the bunker,” he said. He threw the car in reverse, and wasn’t even bothered by the mud by that slung onto the side panels as he backed out of the wild grass. Baby was due for a wash anyway, he’d handle it once he got home, but he had to get back home as soon as possible.

                “Dean,” Mary said, as Dean straightened out onto the road and switched the gear shift to drive, “Ketch may have been. . . sadistic, and dangerous, but those other men did not deserve to die.”

                Dean clicked his tongue. He didn’t think he agreed with Mary. The British Men of Letters all seemed crazy to him. Toni was, Mick was, Ketch definitely was---and if they were crazy, then people had to be crazy to work with them.

                “Try calling Sam,” Dean said instead. Mary sighed. She rubbed at her arms, before finally taking out her cell phone. Dean was still somewhat taken about by how fast Mary had caught on with the newest technology. She used a smart phone like she’d grown up with on, and had the phone pressed to her ear with no hesitation.

                Dean heard the voice from the receiver. _We’re sorry_ —

                He slammed his fist on the wheel. “Damn it!” He pressed harder on the gas pedal.

                Mary sighed. “I can’t believe you let him go,” she said. “Again.”

                Oh, Dean was not in the mood for this right now. “Look,” he growled. “I don’t _like_ Crowley. Hell, I’d love to stick a knife in his gut and twist it, but we. . . have a working relationship, okay? He’s come through for us a lot over the years.”

                “Yeah,” Mary scoffed, “I’m sure his motives are so altruistic.”

                “Absolutely not,” Dean said. “We know Crowley’s out for himself. Actually, we can trust him more than most people because we know we can’t trust him.”

He ignored the ‘what the hell’ look his Mom shot him and continued. “But he wants the world to not be destroyed, just like us. Our interests align occasionally.”

                “So you just let yourself be in his debt all this time? A demon? How’s that any different than a deal, Dean?”

                “Look,” Dean snapped. “You don’t have to like it, but that’s how it’s goes down. We join forces sometimes and the world doesn’t end in fire.”

                “But—“

                “Now is not the time to be having this argument okay? Something’s wrong with Sam and Cas—Sam’s phone is busted, and you heard what Crowley said—“

                “I did,” Mary said begrudgingly. “Fine. We’ll get to the bunker and see what’s happening, get it all figured out. And then I’m having a talk with you—all of you.”

                Dean rolled his eyes, and pressed harder on the gas.

-0-0-

                Sam stared at the information in the text for a long time. He re-read it so many times he lost count. That couldn’t be it. No way in Hell. It was way too easy, and nothing in Sam’s life was ever easy. This had to be included.

                He swallowed.

                _Wounds sustained from holy fire can be cured with a mixture of holy water and salt._

Hell, Sam could make a gallon of holy water in under five minutes, and they had enough salt stocked in the bunker they could open a meat factory. If it was this easy, Cas would have known about it. Surely.

                …Then again, no angel had ever survived a holy fire wound, had they?

                Sam chewed on his lips.

                He closed the book and tapped his fingers anxiously on the cover. He did that for a few seconds before he stood up and paced the room, chewing on his fingernails. Crowley still hadn’t come back. He had no way to track Cas, and waiting was driving him insane. Crowley’s snarky comment about putting a tracking chip in Cas was insane, but, it did get Sam thinking about something they could do so that this shit would stop happening.

                He pinched the bridge of his nose and sank back onto the chair. Holy water and salt, huh. It couldn’t hurt. And it was the only thing they had going so far.

                The text went into further detail, explaining how the holy water and salt worked together to purify the wound and purge it of the taint that came from holy oil. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Sam would’ve appreciated the logistics of it more. He would’ve “geeked out” over every inch of it, but he couldn’t calm the storm in his head.

                He knew Crowley was back in the room when the air grew colder and heavier, and Sam could taste the sarcasm.

                “Nice try, Moose,” Crowley said. “I’ve finally one upped you.”

                Sam sighed and glared at Crowley. “What are you even talking about?”

                “I told your brother how you’re very irresponsible, and cannot be trusted to take care of any pets ever again.”

                “Fine,” Sam said. If Crowley only came back to gloat and see Sam squirm, Sam would not give him the satisfaction. He came to the conclusion just shortly after Crowley zapped out that he was being a selfish brat—he would take Dean’s rage, if it meant saving Cas. Crowley was as trustworthy as a suspicious mole. Sam begun to doubt if Crowley really even did need to hear that ‘bell’ or whatever, or if he was just biding time to make Cas suffer more. Sam wasn’t too sure what their relationship was like at this point---they baited each other constantly, and acted as though just being in the same room as one another was insufferable, but Crowley had saved Cas’s hide more than once, and Cas still hadn’t killed Crowley, so. . .

                But if now was the time when animosity overpowered _whatever_ it was they had, Sam wasn’t going to play.

                “He’s coming like a bat out of hell to put those steel toed boots up your arse.”

                “You gonna hang around to watch? I knew you weren’t going to help Cas, so what the hell are you even still doing here? Get out!” Sam smashed his fist against the table. Crowley was not intimidated—he even seemed somewhat amused, and that pissed Sam off more than the lying and wasting Cas’s time.

                Crowley was gone again. Sam’s shoulders deflated and he dug his fingers into his scalp. He kept seeing that crazy angel, just disappearing with Cas—

                An idea struck him. He grabbed his laptop off the neighboring table. He strained his memory to pull out the words of the spell Isabel had used. He typed them into his search engine, and almost cheered in relief when he got the translation.

                It was only a short range spell. Wherever Cas was, he was still in Kansas, probably not more than fifty miles away. Granted, that was fifty miles in any direction, but it was a much narrower field of search than the entire freaking globe.

                He could work with this. Sam got busy, pulling up maps, radars, local news websites, searching for anomalies, anything that would led him closer to Cas. Sam got so engrossed in his work, he didn’t hear the Impala pull into the garage, but instead, he heard the massive, enraged,

                “SAM!”

                Sam jumped out of his skin, and raced down the hallway. He almost slammed straight into Dean, just narrowly managed to stop in time to avoid a collision.

                Dean’s face was flushed, eyes wild, a look Sam was accustomed to.

                “Before you say anything,” Sam said, swallowing. “I’ve almost found him, I swear.”     


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. . .
> 
> Sorry I missed the update this weekend. Honestly, the finale shook me up real bad, and I still haven't quite gotten over it. JIB Con made things better, but it sucked away my will to write for a few days. I hope you guys still enjoy this chapter, and enjoyed the story overall. It was something I posted on a whim, and sort of got away from me at points.
> 
> If anyone is interested, I will be writing a hiatus fic over the summer, a fix-it to the finale. It'll help me get to October, and maybe it might help you too? I'm gonna try to get it up this weekend, but if you want to make sure you don't miss it, subscribe to me, or follow me on tumblr.
> 
> Thank you guys for all the support. I <3 you

CH 11

                “I told you,” Dean said, exasperated. He was too tired to be angry, too worried. “Not to let him out of the bunker. And what do you do? You let him out of the bunker! And what happens?”

                “Dean,” Mary said gently. “Dean it was an accident.”

  
                “Look, you can be pissed at me later, okay?” Sam said. He pointed to his laptop, which had several different tabs open—a map of Kansas, a police scanner, a Latin translator—and those were just the ones visible that Dean could make out. “But I’ve got it narrowed down—he’s somewhere nearby, I know it.”

                “Yeah, a fifty miles radius, you said,” Dean said. “Fifty miles, in any direction, is still a damn lot of land to search through!”

                “Better than thinking he’s anywhere on Earth,” Sam said testily. “Dean. I screwed up. I know I screwed up. I am trying to fix this. I _can_ fix this. I can heal Cas up too.”

                Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, really? I looked through all the books, Sam, there was zilch.”

                “Not this one,” Sam said, holding up the ancient tome.  “I found it in this book, an obscure little reference, but if it works—Dean, it’s the easiest cure ever.”

                “Great,” Dean said drily. Sam must have been hitting the booze pretty hard. Since when was anything in their life ever easy? “Who do we have to beat down, chase after, or blow up?”

                “Nothing and nobody. Holy water and salt.”

                Dean looked at his mom in disbelief. Her eyes were wide, and seemed to reflect Dean’s thought process. “Really? Really, Sam. That’s what it takes to get Cas his sight back? Doesn’t it seem too easy? If it were that easy, wouldn’t Cas know about it?”

                “That’s what I thought at first too,” Sam said. “But, think about it. No angel has ever survived being burned by holy fire before. Cas is the only one. I mean, it makes sense that angels wouldn’t know about the cure, if they’ve never had to search for one before, because, um,” Sam swallowed. “The angel has never survived. And, it’s just holy water and salt—it can’t hurt him. We have literally nothing to lose.”

                Dean sucked on his lip. He pondered how screwed up his life was—he wondered what it was like to be a normal person, with normal people problems. Mortgages, taxes, Facebook wars. Instead of spending every weekend at a kid’s soccer game, he spent them rescuing his family from crazy, torturous psychopaths, and trying to find cures for impossible injuries. But Sam looked so hopeful—like a little kid, with his lower lip sticking up, surveying Dean’s reaction.

                “You didn’t have him an hour, Sam,” Dean finally said. “If you can’t even look after Cas for one hour, what makes you think you can take care of a dog?” Dean tried to cover his anxiety with humor; it didn’t work as well as he would’ve liked, but Sam huffed a little, a least.

                “Fair enough,” Sam said, smiling at the floor.

                “Okay,” Dean said. He touched the hilt of Cas’s angel blade. They were wasting time by arguing. It wasn’t worth it. “Well, we’ve got it narrowed down. Let’s start cracking.”

\--0-0—

                “So, what’s Mom’s deal?” Sam whispered over the lid of laptop. Mary had disappeared into the kitchen briefly, with the excuse that she was going to make a batch of coffee for everyone, but her tone had been terse and clipped.

                Dean snorted. “So, uh, turns out, Mom and Ketch were—“ Dean swallowed and raised his eyebrow.

                Sam’s face scrunched, his mouth twisting into a disgusting frown. “Ew,” he said.

                “Yeah,” Dean said, computer keys clacking. “Then Crowley came back and,” Dean gestured a line across his throat, “Ketch, and so she’s pissed.”

                “Seriously?”

                “’He’s human’,” Dean mocked. “You know we don’t kill those guys, Sammy.”

                Sam huffed humorlessly. “Yeah. Remember when it was that easy?”

                Dean snorted. “No.” He sighed and rested his chin in his hand, as he clicked through the local news website, searching for anything unusual. Awful as it was, he was searching for those biblical anomalies Cas told him about once—burning bushes, swarms of locus or frogs—that indicated an angel was being. . . hurt. It would at least narrow down their search radius even further, give them something more to go on. So far, Dean only had the story from Sam, that it was an angel named Isabel, and she used a transportation spell because she still couldn’t fly.

                Mary came back in quietly, three mugs of coffee in her hands. She set them down and passed them around.

                “Thanks, Mom,” Sam said, taking his mug. Dean took his too, hesitantly. Mary’s was still avoiding eye contact.

                Then Mom sat down at the neighboring table, with her own little laptop the brothers got her, and she slowly pecked at the keyboard.

                Dean sipped passive aggressively at his coffee. He pressed at his temples. Mom could be pissed at him all she wanted, it wasn’t going to change Dean’s mind. He felt no sorrow over Ketch; couldn’t be bothered to emote an iota of grief. Mary may not understand just yet, but she would eventually. It wasn’t just black and white anymore, there was no line between Human and Monster, there hadn’t been for a long time, there wouldn’t ever again. Mary might have been able to excuse the Brits for hurting Sam, and for almost getting Cas killed by Ramiel, just because they were human, but for Dean? They were worse than monsters for hurting his family.

                And once they found Cas, got him safe, and got him patched up, they were going to have a long talk with Mary. If this. . . if this was going to work out. . .. they needed to be on the same page. Or at least willingly to talk with one another about these sorts of things. Mom needed to understand. . . things were different now. Years ago, Dean agreed with Mary. Humans were humans, monsters were monsters, no ifs, ands, or buts.

                But things changed. Dealing with Sam’s psychic powers, Madison, befriending Cas and Benny, hell, even Crowley and Rowena—supernatural didn’t automatically equate evil anymore.

                Meanwhile, Mr. Ketch, and Mick, and all those other British assholes, went out and about, wreaking havoc, destruction, everywhere they went. Dean couldn’t forgive that. Humanity wasn’t a get out of jail free card. It didn’t excuse the terrible things Ketch and the others did. And, just because someone wasn’t necessarily _human_ didn’t automatically make them evil.

                Dean swallowed down a sip of the coffee. It was hot and bitter.

                They worked in silence for a while, each ticking moment that they found nothing an ache on Dean’s brain.

                When they found Cas—because it was _when_ —Dean was seriously going to have to do something so the dick couldn’t keep disappearing on them like this. Dean was sick of it. There had to be some kind of angel tracker he could use.

                He didn’t hear when Mary spoke the first time. Sam’s voice got excited, asking, “What’s it say?” and Dean looked up to see Sam racing over to her, leaning over her shoulder to look at her laptop.

                “What’s happening?”

                “I found something,” Mary said, brow creased in concentration. “News article, about half an hour ago. There was a minor—really minor, actually—earthquake around Superior.” She looked over her laptop at Dean. “It was less than a one on the Richter scale, actually—it seems no one even felt it, but it is unusual.”

                Dean looked at Sam. “It’s something,” Sam said. “Which is more than we’ve got currently. And it’s within fifty miles.”

                Dean nodded. “Okay,” he said. It sounded solid to him. He had to be optimistic about this. He’d go crazy if he did anything else. “Let’s hit the road.”

 -0-0-

                With the way Dean drove, they made it to Superior, Nebraska within an hour. It wasn’t a much bigger town than Lebanon, and as they drove, Dean kept a look out for suspicious places, somewhere the crazy angel may have taken Cas. It would be secluded, or a place where a normal person wouldn’t just stroll right in. It was cliched, but there was a reason monsters usually picked abandoned warehouses or factories to make their homes. It was something foreboding that screamed “Keep Away” and normal, smart people obeyed.

                They weren’t normal, or smart people though.

                Sam sat in the front, his tablet sitting resting on one knee, a notepad on the other. “I think I’ve got it,” Sam said.

                Dean glanced over, but couldn’t decipher Sam’s notes from this angle. “What?”

                “So, the earthquake had a diameter of ten miles. Not that large, actually. I was able to find the exact center—if angels caused it, they are right here.” Sam pointed to the small, center dot on his tablet.

                “Lead the way, Tonto,” Dean said.

                “You know, _Lone Ranger_ is actually based off of _Don Quixote_ , right? Not to mention really racist, at any rate, but Tonto is supposed to be Sancho Panza, the ‘wise fool’. So, in a weird way, Tonto is really a compliment”

                “Oh my god, Sam, I do not care. You’re navigator, not a Snapple cap, okay?”

                Sam sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled. He put the coordinates into Google Maps. The automated voice began to read off the directions, and Dean followed.

                “You okay back there, Mom?” Sam asked.

                “Yeah,” she said, in a tone that seemed to suggest she was not okay. Sam looked at Dean with worry, but Dean shrugged. Mary sighed. “Hunting is just very different from when I did it growing up.”

                Dean scoffed. “No kidding.” Hunting had changed for him too. He wasn’t sure when the switch flipped, when it suddenly got more complicated than monster **|** human, but it had been that way for a long time. And Dean couldn’t imagine going back, to a time and a mindset when friends like Cas, Garth, and Benny would fall under the sort of category where Dean shot first and never asked questions, ever. “Man, can you imagine if Dad saw us now, Sam? He’d probably be rolling in his grave.”

                Sam huffed in response. “I think he’d eat his own foot the moment he found out about angels.”

                Mary was quiet for a moment. “I think,” she said, “that your father would be proud of you boys. I am.”

                Dean’s ears burned red, all the way to the very tips, and Sam just quietly thanked her, surprise woven into his voice.

                Dean continued following the instructions from the GPS.

-0-0-

                “Well,” Dean said, slamming the car door shut. “I guess this is better than the usual sort of hideout.”

                It was an abandoned house. There was a weather stained foreclosure sign out in the yard, rusted with age, and grass reaching up the post. The lawn was overgrown, grass reaching up to the window sills, and the gutters were hanging low, pulled away from the roof, but otherwise the house wasn’t in too bad of shape. Definitely preferable to abandoned factories.

                “Who knew angels were house shopping,” Sam said. “It’s a bit of a flipper.” Sam looked at Dean knowingly.

                “One time,” Dean snapped. “Watch _Flip or Flop_ one time and you never hear the end of it.”

                “Flipper?” Mary asked.

                “It’s not important,” Dean said. “So, we ready? Everyone got an angel blade?” Dean patted the one he had in his belt loop—the one that belonged to Cas, that Dean was going to give back, after he wrung the idiot’s neck for worrying him like this. At this rate, he was going to get an ulcer, and lose all his hair.

                Sam and Mary nodded.

                “Then let’s get to it.” Dean sprinted to the front door, up the small steps leading the way. He jiggled the knob. It was locked, and there was one of the green padlocks hooked around it, the sort real estates used. Dean backed down the steps, then rushed at the door full speed, slamming all his weight into his shoulder. His teeth rattled at the collision, but he felt the hinges give. Sam’s footsteps were heavy behind him.

                “Move,” Sam said, gently shoving Dean out of the way. Dean scowled, back up, out of Sam’s way. Sam raised one of his giant legs, and slammed his foot in the space between the door and the frame. The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. Sam looked over his shoulder and grinned.

                Dean rolled his eyes. “Good to know your Sasquatch feet come in handy for something.”

                “You know Dean, if you eat all your vegetables, someday you might grow up to be as big and strong as me.”  
                                Dean flipped the bird, but went back up the steps, grabbing onto the angel blade. Mary followed closely behind him. He peered inside, motioning for Sam and Mary to be quiet.

                The house was empty. There was no furniture as they walked into a living room. Just lots of dust that kicked up into the air as they moved around, shifting and refracting the sunlight that poured in through the greasy windows. The floorboards creaked as the moved, but Dean kept his eyes out for anything.

                There was no one. Nothing. Dean swallowed the unease. They went into a kitchen, where the cupboards were all wide open.

                “From the earthquake,” Sam said. “Had to be.”

                The place obviously hadn’t been lived in for some time. Then he saw another door, in the back corner.

                Dean walked to it, and it opened. It was to a basement, but it was pitch black.

                “Hello?” Dean called. His voice echoed back to him.

                Then, “Dean?” It was Cas’s voice, clear as day.

                Dean, Sam, and Mary raced down the steps in a struggle—the stairway was narrow, and they were forced into a single file.

                When they reached the bottom, Dean shuddered in relief. Cas was in one of the far corners, appearing unharmed. Actually, he looked better than he had just when Dean last saw him. The bruising was gone, and he seemed to be sitting straighter.

                In the center of the room was a female angel, limp on the ground, with the black scorch marks underneath her, an angel blade sticking out her chest. Behind him, he heard Mary gag. Dean’s stomach rolled with the realization that this was the first time she had seen a dead angel.

                “Cas, you okay?” Dean sidestepped the angel, and went straight to Cas.

                “I’m fine,” Cas said.

                “Come on.” Dean grabbed Cas by the shoulder and lifted him up, Sam quickly coming to the other side. “We got you.”

                “I didn’t want to kill her,” Cas said. Dean and Sam led Cas back to the stairs. Sam paused a second by the corpse to pull out the angel blade. It made an awful squelching sound, but it was good to always stock up on the weapon when they had the opportunity.

                “I know,” Dean said. “But if it’s between you or them, I want you.” While the bruising had faded away, Cas still had the burns on his face, and his gaze was still uncomfortably unfocused. It served as a realization that Cas had just taken on an angel, hurt and blind, and had won.

                Total badass.

                “Cas, you look better,” Sam said, obviously trying to make Cas feel minutely better.

                “Yes,” Cas nodded. “My grace mostly recovered.”

                Dean patted Cas on the back. “Well, great. And, hey, we think we’ve something to fix your eyes.”

                Cas frowned dubiously.

                “Sam found it in a book. Holy water and salt apparently cures holy fire burns. Holy salt water.”

                “We’ll try it when we get back to the bunker,” Sam said. “I think it calls for a lot of salt, more than we have in the trunk. But we’re only an hour away. We’ll get you right as rain before dinner.”

                “Castiel,” Mary said. Cas turned his head in her direction. Mary paused. “You don’t have to worry about the British Men of Letters anymore.”

                Dean raised a suspicious eyebrow at Sam.

                “I know,” Cas said. He smiled genially, even though Dean could tell the motion hurt him, pulling at the skin where his burns were. “You Winchesters have an annoyingly admirable habit of being true to your word.”

                Dean’s throat tightened. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Okay, let’s get you up the stairs, and then we are home free.”

                Helping Cas up the stairs mainly meant Dean and Sam lifting him like a rag doll, with Cas bitching the entire time at being treated “like an invalid”, but they got him up in just a minute, and Dean only rolled his eyes once at Cas’s snark.

                They put him firmly on his feet once they reached level ground. Cas swayed slightly, but Dean steadied him with a firm grip to his elbow.

                “Okay Mister Independent,” Dean snapped. “Get to the car.”

                Cas scowled. Sam and Mary glared at him, but Dean waited patiently. Cas stood stock still for a moment, twisting his head in several different directions, at different angles.

                “I need help,” he said eventually.

                “See?” Dean said, tightening his grip on Cas’s elbow. “Did that kill you?”

                Cas’s scowled deepened. He muttered in Enochian, which Dean thought was totally unfair.

                “If you’re going to insult me,” Dean said, leading Cas to the front door, “at least do it in a language I can understand.”

                “The words don’t translate into English.”

                Behind him, Dean heard Sam and Mary snorting.

                Dean cuffed the back of Cas’s head. “They got a word for ‘asshat’ in Enochian?”

                “Surprisingly, no,” Cas said, and damn it, teaching Cas sarcasm was probably the worst mistake Dean had ever made. “Enochian is a bit more sophisticated than that.”

                Dean led Cas down the other small set of stairs, and to the car. “Get in,” he said opening the door.

                  Cas got into the car, but Dean didn’t need to see his face to know Cas was still scowling at him. Whatever. Dean wasn’t going to apologize for saving the guy’s hide, _again_.

                Though part of him wanted to climb in behind Cas, he forced himself into the driver’s seat, leaving Mary to get into the back. Dean needed to be the one behind the wheel—he could get them home faster than either Sam or Mary, and they sooner they got home, the sooner they could try this supposed cure, and the sooner they tried that, the sooner Cas would be all healed and Dean wouldn’t have to worry so much about the feathered moron.

                “Everyone buckled up?” Dean asked, as Sam was still fighting to get his legs folded into position. “Great,” he said, without waiting for an answer, and put the car in drive, just as Sam had barely shut the door.

                “Geez, Dean,” Sam said. “The bunker’s not going anywhere.”

                “Maybe, maybe not,” Dean said. He looked into the rearview. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to get home any later than necessary.”

                It was still strange to say it sometimes. _Home_. They had an actual home, with actual beds, and bathrooms, and a real, industrial kitchen, better than most restaurants. For a long time, _home_ was the Impala, and while Dean would never not love this car, he had spent too many nights tangled up like a pretzel, waking with a kink in his neck the size of East Texas, that he appreciated the bunker, and now avoided sleeping in Baby if he could help it.          

                He had fallen in love with the bunker quickly. And he wanted nothing more than for his entire family to be back there, safe, underground, and stay there, stay safe.

                With Ketch dead, and Mick out of commission, Dean figured the British Men of Letters were going to be disorganized for the time being; ergo, not their problem. Kelly Kline was still in the wind somewhere, getting help from someone to be staying off the radar the way she had—but she couldn’t hide forever. Dean didn’t know much about Nephilim, but they were half human, and Kelly didn’t really understand what it was growing inside her belly; Dean figured Kelly would go to a hospital eventually, or someone would see her. They’d find her.

                So Dean couldn’t find it in himself to worry this time. Usually all he did was worry, about the things within and outside his control, but not right now. He chalked it up to just being drained: emotionally, mentally, physically. He had plenty of time to worry about the Satan baby, and the Men of Letters after he had a nap, and a beer or two.

                The drive back to the bunker was quiet. Dean didn’t even turn on the stereo, not noticing that it wasn’t playing until he had been driving for half an hour, and by that point, they were more than halfway home, and Dean was too petty to do anything about it.

                But when he did drive into the garage, he stowed it all. He put the car in park, and turned to Sam.

                “You get the mixture ready,” he said. “I’ll help Mr. Magoo inside.”

                Sam rolled his eyes.

                “Mr. Magoo wasn’t blind,” Cas said. “He was horribly nearsighted.”

                Dean forgot that Cas knew these types of things now. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the entire Metatron’s Pop Culture Repertoire Download because:

                One, Metatron had done it when Cas had been his captive, and he was a slimely douchebag that Dean didn’t like to think about.

                Two, Dean was pretty ticked that he couldn’t tease Cas anymore and Cas not understand.

                And three, Metatron’s tastes sucked.

                But mostly, he was pissed because integrating Cas into the wonderful world of pop culture was supposed to be his job. It was something he had always wanted to do, but always got pushed back and back because of Apocalypses and saving the world. He had imagined that maybe one day there could be a time when all of them, Mom too, could just sit down and enjoy a movie and not have to worry about whether or not the world would still be spinning when they woke up.

                Dean swallowed. Even now, that was still something he desired, something he wished they could do—and it still was out of their reach, put aside to save the World.

                Maybe one day, Dean hoped. Maybe one day they would finally get their share of good luck, and they could get as close to the apple pie life as was possible for them.

                But for now, Dean could do this. Get Cas back up to speed, take away his hurt. Then they would find Kelly Kline. Fix this mess again, together.

                Dean went around to the backseat and put out his hand. “C’mon,” he said, swallowing his hurt. “Let’s fix this.”

-0-0-

                He led Cas back into the bunker, and really began to feel the exhaustion in his bones. He needed a drink, and a warm shower, and a nap—not necessarily in that order.

                He pulled Cas into the kitchen where Sam already had everything set up. Mom stood in the corner, watching cautiously. Dean knew they still had a rift between them. They still had a lot of talk about. Dean didn’t like how this whole Men of Letters thing went down. He didn’t like that his Mom had been working with them. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to convince her of this new gray morality he and Sam had discovered in recent years. It took a long time for him to find it and be comfortable with it. And they weren’t finished with the Brits, he was sure of that too. Ketch may be dead, but there was still Mick, and whoever was running the joint---Dr. Hess, Ketch had said. Whoever that was.

                But that was a conversation for another date, when Dean was buzzed and not as pissed off as he was now.

                Dean lead Cas to the bench seat. Sam was by the stove, the pot of water boiling.

                “We good?” he asked.

                “I think so,” Sam said. His mouth was a thin line. He picked up a pair of tongs and pulled out a white rag. He carried it over, gently. “Okay,” Sam said. “Here goes nothing.”

                Dean took the rag off the tongs. It was incredibly hot—he bit his lip and grimaced, and then thought about the dangers of putting something that hot on Cas’s face that was already burned—but Cas said his grace was back up to speed, so Dean figured it couldn’t hurt him

                “Here you go, Cas,” Dean said. He pressed the rag against Cas’s face. Cas didn’t even flinch at the contact, even though Dean’s hands were beginning to ache.

                “Feel anything?” Dean asked after a moment. He couldn’t see anything with the rag covering Cas’s face, and fear swelled in his throat.

                “It. . .” Cas paused. “Tickles,” he finished, in that tone of voice that Dean knew meant he wasn’t sure if he was using the correct word or not.

                Dean snorted and looked up to Mary. She was smiling slightly. Just a minute curve at the very corners of her lips, but it was something. For the first time, she was looking at Cas like he was a person, not a threat, not some mysterious puzzle to figure out.

                Dean pulled the rag away. Cas’s eyes were clamped shut, but Dean could see it immediately. The burns already looked better—they had turned from a bright red to a more subdued white, closer to Cas’s skin tone.

                Cas peeled his eyes open slowly. They fuzzy, unfocused look was gone.

                “Cas?” Sam asked. “Can you see?”

                Cas squinted. “Colors,” he said. “Shapes are still blurry.”

                Dean looked at Sam, and Mary, and they all shared a sigh of relief. It was _working._ Cas was gonna be okay.

                Everything was gonna be okay.

.

.

.              

                It took an hour for Cas’s sight to return fully. Dean celebrated with beers and a movie. Cas may have all that pop culture downloaded into his brain, but Dean still wanted him to experience it properly. And with how their luck had bene going lately, Dean wanted something light-hearted. _The Princess Bride_ was a classic, and somehow something Metatron had skipped in mojoing into Cas. Mom hadn’t seen it either—it had come out years after that night in the nursery, so Dean got showcase one of his favorite films to two of the most important people in his life.

                It was a nice evening. Nicer than they’d had in a while. And it reinvigorated Dean’s feelings that this would be okay for them. The British Men of Letters, the Nephilim, those lingering cosmic consequences—they would win, because they were Winchesters, damn it, and Winchesters always pulled through, they always won.

                “We’ll find Kelly,” Dean said, after the movie had long finished, and he was more than a few beers into the night. “We’ll figure out this Nephilim thing. It’ll be okay.”

                “We gotta see what’s up with Crowley too,” Sam said, slightly slurring his words. He’d hit the sauce harder than Dean had. Cas, the son of a bitch, was still sober as stone, and was looking at them observantly, and fondly. Stupid angelic tolerance. “He’s. . . definitely hiding something.”

                “He’s a demon,” Mom said. “They’re always hiding something.”

                “Yeah, but this must be something big. He wanted Cas out of the way.”

                “To be fair, we do hate one another,” Cas said. “If I were in his position, I can’t say if I would save him or not.”

                Dean rolled his eyes and playfully shoved Cas. “He’s self-interested, yeah, and it’s in his self-interest not to piss us off. Nah, he’s up to something.”

                “But what?” Sam asked.

                Dean shrugged. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal, just like we deal with everything else. Frankly, with everything else that’s happening, Crowley is the least of our worries.”

                “I’ll drink to that,” Sam said, and raised his beer. Mary, Cas and Dean followed.

                And that night, Dean went to bed clear-headed. Everyone was home, safe. No one was in danger, or hurt, or missing, or imprisoned by the government. And whatever else came their way, whatever adversary they would have to face in the coming weeks, they would come out on top. Things still weren’t picture perfect between him and Mom, but. . . they could get there. Slowly, but surely, everything would work out alright.

                They just had to stick together.

**Author's Note:**

> What do you guys think? Let me know! 
> 
> Also, feel free to come converse with me on tumblr. I'm darkheartinthesky on there too!


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